Every Vow You Break
by ecb327
Summary: Slightly AU fic which begins with Sherlock, in his own inimitable style, throwing John a bachelor party in preparation of a wedding with which John is not entirely sure he wants to go through. Drama and angst ensue. Johnlock. Rated T to be safe. [sorry I'm terrible at summaries!]
1. Situation, Reaction

Saturday, April 20, 2013

_John_

John Watson gets into a taxi on a rainy Saturday afternoon. It's a quarter past one, according to the watch Sherlock gave him for Christmas last year. It is also 11 degrees Celsius, a new moon is due tonight, and if he felt so inclined he could calculate figures up to ten digits in length. He'd only been half-joking when he asked if the tiny machine could break open a safe, and chose to ignore the way Sherlock's lips quirked slyly at the corner in response.

Sherlock's lips. No. He is not going to think about that right now.

"221 Baker Street," he informs the cabbie, who nods and turns the key in the ignition.

"Rotten weather, innit?" the driver pipes up, rounding the corner. "For April. This time last year –"

"I'm getting married tomorrow," John blurts out involuntarily. The cabbie raises an eyebrow in the mirror. "Yeah," he continues, "she's a lovely girl. Really beautiful, intelligent. Met her during a tough time, you see, and my life hasn't been the same since."

The driver stops so that a group of children, headed by a frazzled looking young woman, can cross. They smile and wave balloons at him.

"Bit of a tricky situation, it was. My best friend – my best –" After all these years, he still gets choked up, talking about it.

For months, even after Sherlock's return, he'd been haunted by terrifying nightmares, each one centered around the man he loves most in the world and with whom, he can only hope, the feeling is mutual. They primarily comprised of hallucinations in which the detective died, and for stupid reasons at that – falling down the stairs, forgetting to unplug the toaster before prying the bread out with a fork, a freak car accident. John's therapist always asked why he told neither the subject of these terrible dreams nor his fiance about the situation, and he feebly explained that he wanted to keep it a secret. Didn't want them to worry. It would pass.

What he left out of these sessions, though – what wild horses could not drag out of him – was his worst nightmare, a ludicrous one in which he walked in on Sherlock and (he was a lunatic, absolutely mad; he knew it) James Moriarty. Kissing. Doing things. Conspiring with their masterminds, talking in terms that only they could comprehend. At the end of each excruciating episode, Sherlock glanced up, smirked, and turned his back, as John felt an inexplicable surge of remorse and bitter jealousy before coming to. Honestly, the only thing more ludicrous than the dream itself was how panicked and shaky he felt every time. How he was psychologically tormented, forced to suffer an aftermath far more agonizing than any night terrors about death.

"Watch it!" the cabbie cries out, slamming on the brakes as a lorry runs a stop sign. He apologizes to John, who slides back to his side of the car and clears his throat.

"Anyway. My best friend, Sherlock Holmes – yeah, the famous detective – he, er, pretended to be dead, you know, for two years. I thought he'd gone and offed himself, and I was about to propose to my fiance when he came barging into the restaurant, insulted my moustache, and failed to comprehend why I had any reason to be angry. My best friend! Ha!" John still gets indignant about this. Sherlock is so _infuriating_ sometimes, ruining television shows with his stupidly accurate predictions and walking around in that goddamn wool coat like he rules the world – and the way he dresses, knotting a scarf or whipping a tie round his neck in such practiced, elegant motion – well, that's just obnoxious on a whole other level. Far worse is the man's lack of empathy. He can be so _ignorant_. What, does he think it's fine to go around faking deaths all over the place, when a simple heartfelt apology would suffice?

"Did you punch him?" the cabbie asks presently. He's a young bloke with freckles, and seems quite keen on the idea of John taking out the renowned Sherlock Holmes. "I'm Ollie, by the way."

"John Watson," John says distractedly, mind still on Sherlock. The arrogant manner in which the man strides into the room, the way he is such an insufferable smart ass sometimes, can never fully compensate for – or conceal – the rare moments of softness that John is privy to. Once or twice, he'd seen Sherlock's shoulders slump ever so slightly. He'd watched light dim the tiniest bit in his stormy verdigris eyes. That his best friend would hide any trace of unhappiness for his sake...

"So?" Ollie pressed eagerly. "Did you?"

"Hm? Did I – oh, did I punch him? Right. Erm, yes."

"Sounds like the chap deserved it. Me and my mum read about that whole business in the news. She always said he was out of line, playing tricks like that."

John chuckles. "Daft old sod. But he's my –" He clamps his mouth shut.

"What did you say, then?" the driver inquires, peering at him.

"Nothing."

"Oh."

John gazes out the window. The rain has subsided to a drizzle, which will hopefully disappear in time for the wedding. The _wedding_.

Mary is wonderful. She really is. So understanding, so kind, and her tolerance threshold when it came to Sherlock is off the charts. He could not have found a more perfect woman with which to spend the rest of his life.

For some odd reason, however, it doesn't feel right. He, of course, has had very limited experience in the ways of women, and absolutely none regarding marriage, but he's got an inkling that somehow the husband-to-be oughtn't have to constantly reassure himself that this is the right decision. And it's not so much the act of getting married that's eating at him. No, it's the person. Mary is flawless, he reminds himself. He loves her very much. And yet -

"Bloody hell!" Ollie cries suddenly, screeching to a halt. An expensive-looking limo has just cut them off. Horns begin beeping as two masked men come sprinting towards the taxi. "We're getting mugged!" wails the cabbie. Poor fellow. Bit wet behind the ears still. To be fair, Sherlock does not have a particularly good track record with cabs, and neither, by extension, does John. And though he has been exposed to a broad variety of villains – most of them sans masks – John can't help but get rather alarmed.

"What the -?" He unbuckles and leans forward. "What are they doing?" Before he can reach for his mobile to text Sherlock – before he has time to feel guilty that his first instinct is to reach out to the detective, as opposed to his bride – a sack is thrust over his head, his wrists bound together, and he is tossed roughly into the offending car as it speeds away. Stunned, and justifiably so, it takes him a moment to fully process the fact that he has just been effectively kidnapped and, based on the rate at which the vehicle is moving, probably already several miles away from the scene of the crime. "Don't panic, don't panic," he mutters, then inhales sharply, furiously, when an all too familiar voice drawls,

"Well done, boys. That was a very clean job."

Beyond enraged, John rips off the rope twisted clumsily around his arms and yanks the pillowcase off his head. "How dare you –" he starts.

"Hello," Sherlock says calmly. "Welcome to your bachelor party. Tea?"

–––––

_Sherlock_

Sherlock sits in a posh limo, holding out a cup of tea, and deduces that John is prepared to murder him. He places the mug to the side, raising an eyebrow keenly. "Ah. You're mad at me."

"No, I'm not mad at you, it's just that –" The man shakes his head, speechless.

Sherlock picks up the tea, shrugs, and takes a sip. Talking over the rim of the cup, he says dryly, "Speak up. I can't understand you when you mumble."

The frustration evident on John's face is inexplicably endearing. To be honest, sometimes Sherlock overdoes the smart-assery act just to relish the frazzled expression and indignant stuttering it provokes. This time, he may have gone a bit too far, a discernment that dawns on him all too late. Livid now, his best friend spits, "What the _hell_ is wrong with you? This isn't how you do things!"

"I'm confused. Don't you want this?"

"What, a kidnapping? Where are we even going?" He shakes his head furiously before Sherlock can answer. "Why? _Why?_ I was perfectly happy going over to the flat and having a friendly chat –"

Sherlock scoffs. "Oh, please. Isn't that dreadfully boring?" He rummages in the compartment next to him. "They ought to give this vehicle a proper cleaning before lending it out, the fingerprints are atrocious. Really." John looks on in disbelief as Sherlock leans closer, scrutinizing a square inch of black leather before rattling off, "Young couple, early twenties, drank a bit too much on their way to a party. Hm. Biscuit?"

John swats the cookie away angrily. Sherlock feels a twinge in his chest. Indigestion? He never gets sick. Moreover, it's highly unlikely, given his diet, height, weight, and family history, that he is suffering some sort of heart condition. He's been noticing such symptoms for awhile now, though. Curiously enough, the irregular heartbeat and chest pains seem to increase in frequency when he is in the company of his partner in crime.

"Sherlock?" John waves a hand in front of him.

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters. He feels very much like a nine-year-old boy who's just been scolded – except he never minded scoldings. No, he never cared what anybody thought. Until John.

The car takes a sharp left, and the men end up with their seatbelts tangled together. Flushing – is he coming down with a fever? – Sherlock rights himself, coughs, and adjusts his tie, desperately ignoring the fact that John just nearly landed in his lap.

"Go on," he says, picking at a miniscule speck of lint on the shoulder of his jacket and grimacing. He'd wanted to wear his nicest suit for this – not to impress John, of course – but it's still at the laundromat.

"Are you even listening?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression that you didn't want some drab sit-at-home affair. We do that all the time." Part of him thought that mixing it up a bit (good god, what's gotten into him? Since when did foolish phrases like "mixing it up" enter his vernacular?) might change things. A different setting often evokes different feelings. He's not entirely sure – though in a much more real way, he knows that he is – what brand of emotions he hopes John will someday miraculously experience. He is, however, aware that his plan was formed in self-interest and rather deserving of its poor reception. Normally, this fact would not faze him; he has long accepted his status as rude, selfish, egotistical know-it-all. But he does not want John to think badly of him. Never has.

"Well, a 'drab sit-at-home affair'" – Sherlock glowers: mockery has always disgusted him – "would at least be expected! At some point, I swear to god, you're going to figure out that you can't go around faking deaths and pulling things like this!" John huffs and gazes hopelessly at Sherlock, who begins to feel uncomfortably guilty. Guilt is not an emotion to which he is accustomed. Come to that, he is far from an emotional person in general. Feelings are horrid, really. The tiny something he felt for Molly Hooper once, the way she entered his brain unsolicitedly, was a god awful experience. He can look past yellow tape and Lestrade's idiotic, meaningless opinions to solve a murder in its entirety, but looking past social situations and emotional reactions to parse together a conclusion is something decidedly beyond the realms of his mental capabilities.

Situation: John is constantly on his mind. Which is wholly normal, isn't it? Expected of two people working in close proximity. Sherlock can't recall a time when his partner was not the background of every thought. He simply ignores it until it cannot be ignored any longer. And then, when this is no longer a feasible technique, he presumes that he will compose some brilliant solution to the problem and all will be fine.

He recognizes that this is perhaps not a fruitful approach in this particular instance. Anyway.

Reaction: he dreams of white wedding dresses and a cold-eyed John. He's dreamt of his friend before, of course, but not this unpleasantly. All thoughts regarding John – some ghastly, some merely discomfiting – have intensified lately, leading to distinct uneasiness. This series of events, he reckons, must be typical of any sort of friendship – if that's what this is. He has a sneaking, strangely deflating suspicion sometimes that he and John are work partners, nothing more. Which is fine by him. Totally fine. It would be nice, of course, to discover that he actually means something to the man. Well, it is what it is.

Right?

"My apologies," he says crisply, realizing that it's his turn to speak. "I thought this might be enjoyable. Clearly it hasn't been." He leans forward. The chauffeur is some avid fan of no importance, as is his fellow kidnapper. They'd been bothersome for ages until Sherlock decided to put their blind obedience to good use. "You. Driver. No, I have no need to know your name. Take us back to Baker Street." He glances tentatively at John. Despite their quarrels, despite Sherlock's bitter lack of – well, of many things, such as the innate compassion and empathy which John's entire being encompasses, this man has stood by him, understanding people in a way that leaves Sherlock in reverence. Moriarty was wrong, so laughably wrong, when he called John "ordinary." Sherlock has known for quite some time that he is anything but. "I'll ring Ms. Hudson, have her put together a tea –"

"God dammit, Sherlock," John snaps.

"What did I do wrong?"

"You're so –"

"I know." Sherlock is feeling discouraged when he becomes aware that John is having an internal battle beside him. He knows the indicators like the back of his hand (silly saying, though accurate; he does indeed have the physical identifiers, including hands, of many people memorized): a subtle clearing of the throat three times in succession, shifting side to side, a loud sigh. Concealing a smirk, Sherlock waits for the inevitable.

"_Fine_," John says. "Let's go."

Sherlock acts surprised for his friend's sake. "What?" Oh, John. So frustrating, so open, wearing his heart blatantly on his sleeve. Hard to believe that he's pulled triggers before, when his touch is so soft, his disposition so kind.

"Let's go wherever you were planning to. Before I change my mind." He waits for Sherlock to respond, but the detective only gazes at him, transfixed. "Well? Are you just going to look at me?"

"What?" Sherlock feels his cheeks grow red again. It's not flu season, is it?

John sighs and takes the half-eaten biscuit from Sherlock's hand, fingers pressing down gently in a way that makes it difficult to breathe. Is it possible to contract asthmatic symptoms out of the blue? He should ask John, really, but the man is rambling, a frivolous habit which Sherlock has neither the heart nor desire to criticize. "For the record, it wasn't okay to kidnap me. But you're right. I could use a break."

A smile would give it all away. He's come close before – involuntary, vulnerable smiles when his friend says or does anything that remotely stirs up any sort of inconvenient affection. Smiles that are far more than a short, obligatory muscle movement to indicate a contentment that he generally does not experience. But with John... with John, things are different.

"You're a right pain in the ass sometimes," John concludes, and claps Sherlock on the back, gripping his shoulder for a millisecond too long.

Cue the heart palpitations.

This is actually a rather alarming situation. Sherlock pushes all concerns aside, making a mental note to call a (new) doctor as soon as the wedding is over. The prospect of being thoroughly examined by John is not one about which he wants to think overlong.


	2. A One-Time Thing

_Author's note –_ I set up a Sherlock tumblr – lostinsherlock – if anyone wants to follow!

_John_

"We're getting out here," Sherlock says briskly. John, anticipation growing, grumbles and politely thanks the drivers. He is about to wish them well (compensating for Sherlock's abruptness has become his modus operandi) when the detective seizes his elbow, a familiar and obnoxiously secure hold, saying in a clipped voice, "John? We've got to get to the tube. We're running late, so if you would refrain from unnecessary pleasantries, I daresay it might be to your advantage. I've plotted out seven different routes, and I would much prefer to exercise the plan that is most conducive to your pace and comfort, and has the least probability of breaching legal gray areas. If need be, of course –"

"Oh, shut up," John says, shutting the door and dodging an onslaught of giggling teenagers, struggling to keep up with the detective. He walks so damn fast, with a sense of purpose that John swears to god drives his heels off the pavement until he's practically running. More like flying, really. Beautiful to observe, but a right bastard the moment he opens his mouth. Still beautiful. Or not. Mary's beautiful. Mary Mary Mary. He shakes any remotely non-platonic, Sherlock-related sentiments out of his head and pipes up, "I suppose you aren't going to tell me where we're going?"

Sherlock's silence is more than indicative of the answer. Rolling his eyes, John follows the detective down the stairs. Heads turn, now, when passersby catch a glimpse of that infamous jacket, flapping out to the sides like some sort of superhero cape. Sherlock ignores them, always has, which leaves John to explain to reverent fans that the detective is very busy, that he's been ill, that's he's a little scatterbrained – all extravagantly false statements to cover up the fact that Sherlock simply does not give a shit about his admirers. His exact words: "My so-called 'fans' are nothing more than imbeciles attempting to inject happiness into their lives by targeting any entity suggestive of success, all for the sake of feeling marginally less miserable about their lives. They are as insignificant as flies or yapping dogs. Please hand me the liver, I'd like to examine the decayed segment again." Needless to say, this is a detail that John opts to overlook in his interactions with fans.

They have only a minute-long wait on the platform. Sherlock stands upright as always, feet splayed out, until an old woman with a cane accidentally stumbles into John, pushing him precariously towards the tracks. Sherlock grabs him automatically. "Thanks," John mutters, heartbeat quickening when his friend forgets to let go.

"You ought to be more careful," Sherlock says shortly, though it is with a hint of hesitation that he relinquishes his hand.

"Me be careful? It was her bloody fault," John feels the need to retort.

Sherlock shrugs, bundling his hands deep inside his pockets as if making the point that they are utterly inaccessible. John feels his face begin to burn up. Nope. This is not good. He's never felt this way about anyone before, never felt the overwhelming urge to lace his fingers with theirs for absolutely no reason, never -

The train arrives. Sherlock's arm drifts dangerously near John's shoulder as they board. When it takes off with a lurch, John topples onto the empty handicap seat. Sherlock, of course, has no problem on the tube, much to John's perpetual annoyance. He raises a calculating eyebrow and says snidely, "Having trouble balancing, are we?"

"You_ could_ help," says John, struggling to his feet and grabbing the overhead bar.

"Mm. Yes." The train goes round a bend; the entire population involuntarily shifts to the side, strangers flopping on top of each other for an awkward, fumbling moment, before everybody rights themselves. Sherlock remains there, impassive and perfectly still, throughout. Typical.

"Good friend," snaps John. "Just let me flail around."

"My pleasure." Sherlock thinks for a moment, opens and closes his mouth, then says, "So we're friends."

"No, I was being sarcastic."

"So we aren't."

"We are, but in that particular instance I was being sarca –"

"No matter," says Sherlock shortly, and angles his body so he's staring out the window.

"What's wrong with you?" John swipes dirt off his jacket impatiently. "Of course we are. Friends, that is."

Still with his back turned, Sherlock asks, "Really?"

"Obviously."

"Oh."

The train lurches once more, and even Sherlock stumbles slightly this time around. His hand grasps at the metal bar, slender fingers smooth and cool against John's knuckles. John feels butterflies, like he's a bloody twelve-year-old dancing with a girl for the first time. Sherlock does not acknowledge this physical contact, but doesn't withdraw his hand, either.

When they are running along straight, level tracks once more, making support unnecessary, he still does not move. God.

Silence hangs between them. Sherlock maintains solid, firm pressure, a surprisingly intimate touch that slowly begins to drive John insane. Neither breathes a word until they reach their stop, at which point Sherlock removes his hand, gracefully leaps over the gap, and begins striding down the street, John trotting stupidly after him.

–––––

_Sherlock_

They end up at a pub, which serves fish and chips Sherlock is quite partial to. "Are you ready for the..." He gestures vaguely.

"The wedding?"

Sherlock sprinkles a dash of vinegar across his plate and says curtly, "Yes, that." For some odd reason, he has, ever since the engagement, found himself unable to force the word out. The thought of giving up his best friend is painful enough; the fact that Mary is so very deserving of John rubs salt on the burn. Truth be told, he feels overshadowed. And, as previously mentioned, feelings don't come easily to him.

"I'm, you know. Nervous."

"How can I help?" Sherlock asks briskly.

John laughs. Does he assume that his friend is joking? Rightfully so; it is with a stab of regret that Sherlock recalls thoughtless comments, disregarding and taking for granted the constancy that their friendship has offered through the years.

Then again, it is not as though he hasn't played his part in the wedding. Unbeknownst to virtually anybody else (Mycroft, unable to resist sticking his head in everyone's business, made a handful of shrewd remarks but was quieted by Sherlock's resulting onslaught of profanities), he has placed inquiries. Anonymous orders. Research late at night, alone with the glow of his computer screen (John and Mary, he reckoned, were probably cuddling in bed, watching television, settling in for the night), a cup of cold tea untouched by his side. Research that led to strategically placed pamphlets, mysterious phone calls, miraculous and surprising surpluses in the budget.

He has planned the majority of the wedding, and is allowing Mary to take credit. Painful. Necessary. Seeing John happy, seeing his face light up, is the sole reason that he agreed to be best man, making it critical that John suspects nothing. If he discovered Sherlock's involvement, that he prevented multiple crises (color schemes that John would hate, cake that contains ingredients that he dislikes, table arrangements that he would not enjoy), his gratitude would overwhelm the both of them. Highly risky. Gratitude leads to displays of affection; a hug or handshake leads to a vast quantity of possibilities.

Far too dangerous.

It doesn't even matter. He is in the pub. His food is delicious. Everything is fine.

John's frowning at the menu, awaiting the detective's imminent return to reality. The echo of his partner's disbelieving laugh playing at the back of his mind, Sherlock maintains a serious expression. Brow furrowed, not so much so as to imply concern, but enough to disprove any misconceptions of amusement.

After scrutinizing him for a second, John shakes his head, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. Sherlock fights the urge to reach over and do the same, smooth down the pieces sticking out, feel the alternating textures against his palm. John takes a swig of beer and says, "Tonight's more than enough. I need a break. Thank god this wedding is a one-time thing. I don't think I'll be able to look at another stationery sample or smell another perfume for the rest of my life or I'll be sick."

_This wedding is a one-time thing._ Of course. Marriage lasts at least fifty percent of the time. John and Mary are – Sherlock invariably grits his teeth at the thought – perfect together. Happy together. And Mary's not a sociopath, which is always a bonus. Mary is a woman, a charming young woman, who has proven herself adequate of taking care of John.

_Mary is a woman._

Well. Never mind that now.

Small talk has never been his strong suit, though out of necessity he has mastered the art of simultaneously bobbing his head up and down and carrying on a minimal conversation while his mind is otherwise engaged. As John goes on about something – the weather, politics, sports – Sherlock nods and makes appropriate comments.

Mary Morstan. There is something very odd about her demeanor. Nobody has ever been so supportive of his and John's relationship – apart from Mrs. Hudson, of course, but she's envisioned them as a couple from the beginning and therefore her opinion is as significant and biased as that of a grandmother or great-aunt. Nobody has ever been so kind towards him, besides John, but John is forever the exception. Nobody has ever been so cool and composed around dead bodies, listened so calmly to Sherlock's assessments of her character. Nobody (save for Sherlock) has ever made John's eyes wrinkle at the corners, a cause-and-effect event thanks to contractions along the edges of his mouth and subsequent ones on his cheeks. Until now, nobody else had incited the quasi-flirty behavior, the sarcastic retorts, the back-and-forth, near-playful interactions that flood Sherlock's chest with a pool of warmth.

But sometimes Sherlock wonders. Wonders if she has John memorized as he does; wonders if she senses, rather than observes, his needs, his emotions, his pain; wonders if she loves him as much as –

No. He cannot go there, will not go there. Love is a complicated thing, something from which he has always shied. Whether or not he loves John is inconsequential. Should he choose to analyze further, which he does not (out of fear, he must confess), the type of feelings he has for John are far more relevant. Platonic. Romantic. Something more. Who knows.

_He_ knows, but he will not admit.

John is watching him. He has probably deduced that Sherlock is not taking in or processing a single word he's uttered in the past five minutes, and to his credit, he simply falls silent, far too accustomed to his friend's habits to be insulted.

Sherlock stands up. They haven't had much to drink; the last thing he needs is alcohol, which encourages reckless confessions. His beer rests untouched: John's only a little less than half full. Subconsciously, both men are aware of this fact, and have subtly disciplined themselves from the start of the outing, holding back from something. What? These lines are blurred, the rules unclear, thoughts and feelings muddled together. Passage of time, to Sherlock's chagrin, now composes of drawn-out, tension-heavy silences and poorly-suppressed impulses. Long gone are predictable clock faces, seconds ticking by without fail.

"Where to?" asks John. Sherlock slaps a few bills down on the table and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, striding outside with the expectation that his partner will follow. He does.

"It's early still, and unusually cold. Fancy a sweet? There's a cafe nearby. That was plan B, but based on reviews and my extensive research on your taste in coffee –"

John grips Sherlock's arm. Sherlock goes limp at the touch, allowing his hand to slide slowly down John's stomach. "It's fine, Sherlock," John whispers. They make eye contact; the light turns green; cars begin moving and honking. Danger. Detective and doctor jump apart.

"Right, then," Sherlock says, clearing his throat. "This way."

A tinkling bell announces their arrival. Couples are spread comfortably across couches, sharing scones from white ceramic plates that clink against glass coffee tables. The men have their arms around their girlfriends, a possessive act Sherlock has never fathomed. He is aware that men are generally territorial; why, though, must they flaunt their partners like prizes belonging to them alone?

Then again, the notion of having his arms around John is not an unpleasant one. Any physical contact at this point is enough to make his heart race – maybe he is allergic to John's soap, which always smells so clean and alluring – and imagining John's head on his chest, hair tickling his chin, upturned face, legs perhaps curled across his own, lips for the taking...

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock snaps defensively.

John looks more exasperated than hurt. "What do you want?"

"From you? You. What? Me. Can – sorry." Sherlock is disoriented. Losing control. Why had John had to touch him just then, grab his arm, pull him in? Breathe. Speak. Words. He has never come undone like this.

John eyes him in concern. "No... what do you want from the – from the menu. Are you alright?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock says. He orders a cappuccino, which he knows he will barely touch. The only seat available is a wide armchair, not quite large enough to qualify as a love seat, as there is only one cushion and absolutely no way to fit into it without a substantial amount of bodily contact.

"Um, do you want to sit...?" John's question tilts up at the end, as questions often do, but there is a mix of hesitation and tentative eagerness catching in his throat.

Sherlock focuses on the wall, ceiling, anything but his friend. He mutters, "That's the only place. Logically, we could finish our drinks outside, or get a cab to take us elsewhere, but that seems tedious and unnecessarily unpleasant, given the lowering temperature. It is, however, _your_ stag night, so I leave the decision up to you." He waits with bated breath, index fingers pressed together against his mouth.

"I don't mind," says John, tentatively moving towards the chair.

"Me too," murmurs Sherlock.

John occupies the majority of the seat, with Sherlock awkwardly shifting before him, unsure as to what the appropriate next move is – that is, until John looks up expectantly and asks, "Aren't you going to sit down?"

"Oh. Er. Certainly." He lowers himself down, hypersensitive to the sensation of his thigh rubbing against John's, and forces a relaxed smile. John's face, so close, is warm and welcoming and open as always, and he casually rubs a hand across Sherlock's knee.

"Thanks for this."

Sherlock seriously considers bolting. The heat of John's breath on his neck, the closeness, the intimacy of their position, is too much to handle.

"I'm not joking, though. Thank you. It means a lot. I love Mary, but god..."

Sherlock waits with bated breath. _But god..._ But god what? God, I love you. God, I hate her. God, I can't marry someone I'm not smitten with. God, you're perfect.

All possibilities. All highly unlikely.

John is still silent, until Sherlock feels compelled to say, "I can only assume that your sentence has petered out and it would be rich of me to require a follow-up. Therefore, I am agreeable to changing the subject, if you are so inclined."

"No. I – I don't want to."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. John's hand is still on his knee. Their legs rub together, worn denim tickling his skin. "Don't want to what?"

"Change the subject. I mean, I want to talk."

"Are we not talking?"

"No, no, Sherlock, I –" John shuts his eyes, shakes his head, stutters, sighs. "Never mind."

Careful. Gaze ahead. Don't let it show. Tighten shoulders, clench fists. Unfeeling. Cynical. Dickhead. "Alright," Sherlock says evenly.

"Alright," John repeats softly. He's close, too close, lips slightly parted. Sherlock shivers involuntarily, which is odd, given the stuffiness of the room.

"So," says Sherlock, drawing out the syllable as he struggles to think of something appropriately mundane to bring up. Weather? Too obvious. News? They always read and watch it together, leaving nothing to discuss now. Politics? Potentially controversial. Sports? He knows nothing of them, aside from the fact that they are apparently a big deal and incite men gathering at bars to holler at each other and slosh beer all over the place. Still, it's worth a shot. Sherlock musters up a smile, the sort that he fakes half-heartedly at interviews and press conferences. "Have you been keeping up with football this year?"


	3. We'll Fit

_John_

"Tired?" John asks three hours later. This, he knows, is a foolish question, given that Sherlock rarely feels the need to sleep. Sleep is but a pastime: something to do when there is no immediately pressing alternative.

To his surprise, Sherlock replies in the affirmative, explaining, "I've booked us into a hotel. Don't worry, I cross-checked thoroughly, making a selection based on your personal preferences, dietary needs, general likes and dislikes, and sleeping habits."

Sleeping habits. What, has the man been creeping on him late at night? They haven't spent enough time together sleeping in the same room (which they have indeed done on occasion, when cases necessitated an overnight stay in a distant location) for Sherlock to have gleaned extensive vaults of knowledge regarding his nocturnal tendencies. John doesn't know how he feels about this. Regardless, he's getting drowsy, so he agrees to go. It's a little brisk out at this point; a short walk later he is relieved to stand in a warm lobby.

"Reservation under Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Ah ah ah," he says, holding up a hand as the familiar look of recognition crosses the hotel worker's face, inevitably followed by an outburst of incoherent babbling and "you're Sherlock Holmes" and "I've followed your stories since I was a little kid" and "would you very much mind signing my hat/purse/arm." "I know who I am, thank you very much. Now give me the key."

She gazes at him.

Sherlock exhales in irritation. "You didn't attend an Ivy League school in the States to stare stupidly at a detective whose fame escalated when he faked his own death. You took this desk job, which you privately deem below you, to cope with the fall-out of your breakup. Degrading comments on behalf of your ex-boyfriend have reduced you to a state of chronically low self-esteem, hence the obsession with anyone remotely well-known who, in your mind, stands for all that you could have been. Don't look so shocked; I'm sure you've read all about me in the tabloids. Surprised to see me without that ridiculous death frisbee on my head, probably."

"I –"

Sherlock sighs. "Just give me the key." Then, as if it pains him, "Please."

"Proud of you," John murmurs as they leave the slightly traumatized young lady and head to the lift. "Next time, perhaps tone down the insults. You did say 'please,' which was a nice touch."

"I don't insult, simply observe," Sherlock says absently, pressing the up arrow.

"Right." John turns his head so as to hide the fondness with which he is all too accustomed. Sherlock is an utter dickhead, and he is loath to condone such behavior, but that isn't to say that he doesn't have the utmost, often unjustifiable, respect for the man.

"Here we are," Sherlock announces, sliding the card in the slot and opening the door. He frowns at the piece of plastic, bending it back and forth. "Absurd idea, using a flimsy square as a key. Unbelievably easy to copy, and based on its markings as compared to the others strewn across the desk – poor woman ought to work on organizational skills, too – this is universal." He tosses it aside and flicks on the light.

"You need to relax," John says firmly. "It's not like we have reason to padlock the door. We're not up to any funny business." He chokes, realizing the implications of such a statement. "I just mean – we won't be – we aren't solving –"

Sherlock runs a finger over the sideboard. "I'm perfectly clear. Please stop trying to clarify. It's rather disconcerting." He spins around with a flourish.

John opens and closes his mouth, grasping for words and finally settling on, "Right. Telly?"

Sherlock nods, hanging up his jacket. "John?"

"Hm?"

"Coat."

"Oh. Forgot you have a thing about that. Alright, then." John gets off the edge of the bed. He moves to undo it, but Sherlock's hand is on the zipper, curly head bent intently over it. John doesn't move, feels the man's breath on his cheek, shuts his eyes for a split second.

"Why do you buy these cheap rags?" Sherlock complains. "I fail to see the aesthetic appeal of a double zipper, and it's obvious that it serves no purpose other than being a nuisance." He tugs at it a bit; the zipper has gotten stuck halfway.

"Let me try," John starts, but he knows Sherlock is too stubborn. Even the tiniest inconvenience – leaky sink, clogged drain, dysfunctional toaster oven – becomes a puzzle which he must solve. There is no way in hell that he will let a stuck zipper rest.

"I blame this entirely on you," Sherlock mutters. He's nearly bent double now, being so much taller than John, and John feels a whisper of breath through his shirt as the detective's face comes dangerously near his abdomen. He shivers. This is not a comfortable situation, getting partially undressed with Sherlock's mouth lingering above his waistband.

"Oh, for god's sake, just let me do it!" he finally says, pushing Sherlock a bit too forcefully away. The wounded look that this action elicits makes John's stomach plummet. After struggling for a few moments, the zipper pops free and he hands his jacket to the fastidious detective, who brushes it off carefully and hangs it next to his own.

"What do you want to watch?" Sherlock asks calmly, perching on the edge of the bed and taking off his shoes, meticulously lining them up parallel to the wall. His left black sock has a rip growing on the heel; John feels a rush of guilt. He's always taken care of the man, in a way, making sure he eats what Mrs. Hudson brings up, seeing to it that the little things in life are not overlooked, for Sherlock often becomes so entangled in his mind palace that he forgets about anything else. And so John performs small but essential tasks: patching up his coats, cleaning stains off his ties, restocking shoe polish when he knows the detective is too busy to do so. Once he even purchased new boxers, back before it seemed strange.

Why was it strange now? Good lord.

Obviously, Sherlock never acknowledges – probably doesn't think for a moment – that his friend goes to such troubles. Which ought to dissuade any normal person. Except John is far from normal. In fact, he's pretty sure he's going bonkers.

At any rate, he ought to have replaced Sherlock's socks long ago. Mary just takes up so much time, doing couply things that he does genuinely enjoy, except... except it can get tiresome. She's talkative, bright, eager – the exact opposite of Sherlock's withdrawn, broody, cynical nature. The thing is, John's an innately friendly, kind person. However, there is a hidden darkness in him, that many, when exposed to it, choose not to see. They make casual conversation, have a few laughs, leave.

Not Sherlock. No, he doesn't say a word about it: he merely sits in the silence. Pensive. Respectful. Keeping his distance. And on particularly bad days, when the limp begins to creep back in, he will stand in the doorway for a full minute, thinking John can't notice him (he does). He assesses the situation, standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, and comes up with a solution. A demanding case on some days; others, a movie and takeaway. Playing violin until John is lulled either into sleep or reality is always a viable option, too.

Nobody understands him like Sherlock. This much is clear.

But, he thinks, watching Sherlock's slender fingers punch buttons on the remote, Mary is what he's got. Mary is attainable. Mary is there. And Sherlock... Sherlock will always be just out of reach.

–––––

_Sherlock_

There is a knock at the door. Sherlock glances at the clock; it's quarter to midnight. John groans. "I guess I'll get it then," he says irritably, wearing only a worn t-shirt and pair of shorts ("pajamas," or so he claims, but Sherlock feels affronted and peeved, watching him march around in such attire).

A hotel attendant hovers hesitantly over the threshold. "Um," he says. His nametag reads "Paul," with a doctor's office-esque smiley face sticker half-covering the last letter. "It seems that we, er – you're Sher –"

"What is it?" asks Sherlock. These people are exhausting.

"Sorry. We're quite honored to have you here, it's just –"

Sherlock stands up, walks to the door. It's not as though this interruption is particularly intrusive; he and John were simply flipping channels and making small talk, but somehow it feels sacred to him. His last moments, his last night, with his best mate. Before he has to give him away. Become a loner in an empty flat. John Watson, gone.

"It seems this particular room was not intended to be occupied this evening."

"What?" John looks at Sherlock, bewildered.

"I'm sorry," the employee apologizes. "There's a broken spring in the bed, we have to take it out so the mattress company can pick it up tomorrow and exchange it for a new one. Totally on us, we forgot to do it earlier, shouldn't have had it in the computer system that this room was available."

"Which bed?" Sherlock asks.

"The one near the door."

"That's Sherlock's," John points out.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says primly, and turns to the bloke. "What are our options?"

"We can check and see if there's another vacancy, though I'm afraid we're a bit crowded tonight, there's a massive wedding party blocking up half the floor."

The cot closest to the door, naturally (John's statement really was not necessary), is the one Sherlock had claimed. Some grossly overprotective part of him deems it absolutely critical, in all situations, to be near John, defending John, and damned if he was going to allow the man to sleep (a most vulnerable state) closest to the entrance to their room.

"So...?" Paul is waiting.

"Dunno," John says, shrugging at Sherlock. "One of us could kip on the floor."

"Moving to another location would be inconvenient, given the time of night and activity level of this population," Sherlock agrees. "We'll stay."

"Right. Hold on." The attendant mutters something into his Bluetooth, then gives a wide-toothed grin. "They're headed up right now to haul it out."

"Excellent. Very efficient," notes Sherlock.

Paul flushes pink. "Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment." John stamps on his foot. "Ow."

"Thank you for having us," the doctor says to fill the awkward silence. "Must be fun, working here? Lots of people watching, I expect. Interesting characters."

"Oh, definitely. I meet a good lot of cool –"

"That will do." Sherlock pushes past the boy. "They're here."

"I don't hear –"

John rolls his eyes and says apologetically, "He gets like this. He's got super senses and doesn't hesitate to be cocky about it."

"Cor," breathes the fellow, while Sherlock snaps,

"I heard that."

Sure enough, a pair of burly workmen have the broken mattress out of the room in a matter of minutes, leaving Paul gawking in the doorway and fiddling with the hem of his polo shirt.

"Goodnight," Sherlock says crisply. The young man starts a bit, then says,

"Oh, erm, alright. I can bring an extra set of bedclothes...?"

"Please just leave. You're giving me a headache."

Crestfallen, Paul backs out hurriedly. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock." John gazes at him reproachfully the moment the door swings shut. "Was that really necessary?"

"I can't deal with any more people tonight." Sherlock struts over to the bed, which appears surprisingly small given its actual dimensions. He hesitates for a split second. John is standing on the carpet, bare feet, hair messy from leaning against the pillows too long. John is beautiful, exquisite, in this rumpled state. Displeased with Sherlock, yes. Angry? Sherlock (desperately?) hopes not.

"Well, I might as well get comfy on the rug, then," John says after a curiously tense beat. "Mind if I snag a pillow?"

The realization of the situation hits Sherlock. "No," he says firmly, taking John's wrist and tugging him towards the bed. "This is your night. I'll sleep on the floor."

John's eyes look slightly glazed. Did he have too much to drink? Mild, alcoholic-induced intoxication? Or is it sheer tiredness, nothing more?

Come to that, Sherlock feels intoxicated, but he is pretty sure no drug is playing a part. It's goddamn John Watson's fault. Stupid. He sucks in a breath and lets go, the warmth of his friend's arm still imprinted between thumb and forefinger.

"We could share, you know," John says quietly, hand cocked at a strange angle by his side, as if still feeling the sensation of skin against skin. "It's a big enough bed."

Sherlock coughs. Momentary speechlessness. Loss of inhibition. Deterioration of reasoning abilities. Perhaps he is drunk.

He isn't, though.

"Oh. Um. I suppose – yes, that does make sense," he manages. "We'll fit."

John gives a tight-lipped smile. Not the sort he gives when he's forcing happiness: no, this implies apprehension, anticipation, anxiety of some kind. Then he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, yawns. "I'm knackered," he says, climbing into bed. He carefully leaves room for Sherlock; it is an adequate amount of space, but not as much as he could have given. "Care to join?" he asks, and turns on his side with a little huff of annoyance when he receives no response.

Sherlock stands there, taking in the sight of the wiry doctor, and stops breathing for a solid ten seconds.

He finds very, very few things appealing. Only two, really. One always has been, and always will be, crime scenes. Murders. Deduction. Puzzles, riddles, adrenaline, solutions. Lab coats, microscopes, yellow tape. Straightforward. Simple.

The second one is – and Sherlock hates to admit it, hates even more the image of Mary that flashes in his mind, and hates most that he is utterly, hopelessly helpless – John Hamish Watson.

That little bugger.


	4. Daft Old Sod

_John_

"You're not really angry, are you, John?" Sherlock asks softly.

"No."

"You do think I'm a bit of a dick sometimes."

"Daft old sod," John repeats, acutely aware of Sherlock's body shifting beside his.

"Mm. Yes. Well, I did throw a rather good bachelor party, didn't I?"

"That you did."

Sherlock switches to the side facing John. There is something unreadable, unreachable, in his eyes. John's pulse quickens.

"Sherlock?" he whispers.

Sherlock reaches out and lightly touches his face. His fingers barely graze the side of John's cheek, but it's enough to make things a lot more difficult for the man. "I'm happy for you, John. I do hope you know that," the detective says quietly. His index finger quivers ever so slightly, nearly brushing the corner of John's mouth. They makes eye contact, and John does not have to be a genius to detect some forbidden emotion hidden in the man's gaze. Longing. Regret. Love.

"Sherlock," John says hoarsely, heart beating so rapidly he might need medical assistance soon.

And suddenly it's over. Sherlock's expression hardens, his muscles tense, and he rolls over to the edge of the bed. "Goodnight," he says flatly, and falls silent.

John forgets what it's like to move, to think, to perform any basic human task. The vulnerability of that moment, the uncertainty of the gesture, the unexpected softness of Sherlock's thumb resting against his chin, has utterly undone him. "Pull it together," he mutters. "You're getting married tomorrow. Married. To a woman."

Still, images flash through his head. There have been moments, throughout their time together. Then again, that's to be expected, isn't it? Fighting crimes and saving lives together is bound to create some sort of bond.

But there have been definite moments. Perhaps he is making this all up in his head. Sherlock must be demonstrative sometimes. Molly Hooper told him once that the man had kissed her on the cheek. Of course, Sherlock would never do such a thing with John – the mere possibility is absurd – but there have still been moments, instants at the flat late at night.

Sherlock, constantly moving, was giving John a headache one evening, and after several outbursts finally obliged John, agreeing to relax, but when he sat down beside him proceeded to move his leg up and down at such a swift rate that the entire floor seemed to shake. Frustrated beyond belief, John tossed the newspaper aside and brought his hand down on his partner's thigh.

"Stop it," he'd snapped.

Sherlock had immediately stilled, staring intently at him, and John felt his face go red as he hastily relinquished his grip.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You can – you can pace, if that's what you want. Do what you want to."

"I'm perfectly fine sitting here," Sherlock said tersely.

John pretended to read the newspaper, but he cast sly glances at the detective, unable to ignore the fact that their knees were in sudden contact, that the fire was quite warm, and that it had taken one touch – his touch – to subdue the perpetually jumpy man.

"Quit looking at me," Sherlock finally said.

John whistled innocently.

"John."

"Pardon?"

"Oh, don't act like you think I really don't notice you. Subtlety really isn't your area."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he retorted airily, scribbling in 6-down on the weekly crossword puzzle.

"Don't be like that. It's not fitting." Sherlock finally stood up, the pressure of his arm against John's dizzying in the split second that he was in motion. "And by the way, you really ought to shave more. You don't want another one of those absurd caterpillars growing on your lip, do you?"

"It looked perfectly fine!" John said, choosing to ignore the way Sherlock's mouth rounded over the word "lip." "You've no right –"

Sherlock held up a hand, pouring himself a cup of tea with the other. "Please."

"I –"

"Are you staying over?" There was a fragile intonation in the question that John could not put a finger on. "Your room's still here."

For some reason, John did not feel prepared to handle the image of Sherlock in a bathrobe – or worse, a mere towel – wet hair messy and dripping all over the place. "No," he said.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said shortly, and retired to his bedroom.

And now here they are. In a hotel room. Side by side. John's head is spinning. He contemplates getting something to drink, but does not want to disturb what already feels like a precarious situation. With only six inches of thin sheets between the two men...

This is positively mental.

Sherlock's chest rises and falls, even breaths that indicate sleep. Though with him, one never knows. He might well be faking it. "Daft old sod," John says into the dark, sighing and pulling the duvet up under his chin. "But he's my sod."

–––––

Sunday, April 21, 2013

_Sherlock_

He wakes up the following morning at precisely 6 a.m. John is pressed firmly against his side, snoring slightly, and when Sherlock cautiously moves to get out of the bed, a small whimper escapes the man's lips; he reaches out, fists the hem of Sherlock's shirt. _Please stay._

Gulping slightly, and perched in an awkward half-upright position, Sherlock stares at John. "Adorable" is a word that he has never once uttered or thought, but it seems to fit the bill. Tiny, frowzy, soft around the edges. So unlike his tall, austere, bony self.

He finds himself rendered unable to pry his gaze away from John's damn lips. Parted slightly. Thin, pale pink, a hint of tongue visible between half-hidden teeth.

"Mmph," murmurs the doctor.

Quick. Move away. Danger. Sherlock hurriedly leaps out of bed, so that by the time his friend finally throws off the covers, he's in the bathroom casually washing up.

"Morning," yawns John.

"Sleep well?" Sherlock's heart is pounding. The sight of his partner bleary-eyed and drowsy should not elicit such emotion, nor be so visually pleasing.

"Mm."

"Good."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock wipes his face off, turns. John is standing eight inches away from him. Self control: engage. Now, for god's sake.

"Thanks," John says simply, smiling.

"Of course," Sherlock breathes. Words. Good.

"Um, Sherlock."

"Yes?" Is the air stuffy in here? He fears a lack of oxygen or surplus of carbon dioxide, both of which he knows are highly improbable; however, he can think of no alternate reason why respiration would be suddenly hindered in this manner.

"You're blocking the loo."

Sherlock coughs. Perhaps he really is getting sick. "Sorry." He steps aside. John flashes him another smile, this time a little questioning, and shuts the door.

Sherlock immediately begins to pace. Mind palace. Steeple of fingers, pressing against his chin. Mind palace. Find the mind palace. He reaches the window, spins on his heel, starts walking back. Inhale, exhale. Reason. Logic. Safety. He does not feel secure right now.

The wedding is this afternoon. They have to be at the church, getting ready, in three hours. The sodding wedding.

Don't get angry. Deep breaths. There you go.

"Sherlock?" John calls. He pokes a head out the door, top half naked. "Do you reckon I've got time to shower before we have to leave?"

Plan. Time. Think. Not about John in the shower. Nope. Hours. How many? One and a half, to be safe, to get back to 221b. Breakfast? Thirty minutes. Calling to make final arrangements, confirm everything is in place (Mary will have done that, of course, but he's got a handful of extras working behind the scenes with whom it is crucial to touch base)... another half hour.

"If not, it's fine," John continues, as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply. "Could you just hand me my pants, then?"

Shit. Sherlock forgets what he was saying.

"Sherlock?"

"Sorry, sorry. If you make it fast, you have time to shower."

John grins. "Be right out."

"Excellent," Sherlock mutters, walking up and down the room. He gives the area a cursory survey, though he knows nothing is missing.

He has to come to grips with this. Marriage, inconsequential as it may be, is, to everybody but himself, a big deal. Mrs. Hudson warned him, explaining that it alters things, pointing out that he has always lived alone. It is the nature of life to change, is it not? Entropy, the random motion of particles towards a state of chaos in the universe. There is no way for anything to stay the same. Sherlock acknowledges this truth.

So then why is he getting agitated at the mere mention of Mary, at the thought of John moving on, of himself staying the same, alone? 221b isn't that bad, cast in gray shadows, quiet. Too quiet, without John? Perhaps. He has been acclimatizing, though. Counting the number of days he can handle without speaking with his friend (eight so far; as long as he sees John on the ninth morning sometime before noon, he is able to restrain himself from showing up wherever the doctor is. John makes it so easy to track him).

"Sherlock? Pass me a towel?" John calls.

Sherlock jolts out of his – well, he never fully maneuvered his way into his mind palace – mind foyer, and grabs a towel, a little scratchy against his palm. John's hand is dangling out the door, disembodied, goose flesh and dewy water drops snaking a pattern down his forearm. He takes the proffered towel, fingers closing, moist and warm, around Sherlock's.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Sherlock breathes, then spins sharply on his heel and strides towards the window. Anywhere but John. He hears the door open, hears John pad softly towards the bed, can practically feel the energy release as the older man bends down, muscles in his back contracting, to get dressed. When the final button weaves through its slot, Sherlock exhales and turns back around.

"You alright, then?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock replies; the man's wiry arms, biceps subtly flexing to pull a jumper over his head, are rather distracting.

"Okay. Here." John tosses him his coat, takes his own – Sherlock recalls John's scent, his skin, his body heat engulfing him; he had, of course, had perfect control over the double zipper, but fumbling over it made for a good excuse – and jerks his head towards the exit. "We're off, then?"

"Um. Yes."

"Pretty sure I'm the one who should be nervous and incoherent," John points out as they stroll down the hall. "It is _my_ wedding day, after all."

Sherlock's stomach turns over. Does he really have to mention it that many times, _really? _Itching with irritation, he says, "Right." Grits his teeth. Mind palace. Find the mind palace. Reason is an inexplicable barrier between himself and his own sorrow, and it is vital that he find it. Logic. A case would be ideal, of course, but a handful of minor dissections and decomposing livers might be sufficient to take his mind off of it.

Off of the wedding, of course. Off of John... well, at this point nothing – _nothing – _could ever take his mind off of John.


	5. Unhappy Addiction

_John_

_Well, this is it._ John stands before the mirror, exhales deeply. A sense of relief, soon to be replaced by foreboding, had settled over him the moment entered an empty flat. The memory of last night burns fresh in his mind: Sherlock's breath snaking around his lips, so close yet so far, so unattainable, always will be, he reckons. Unavailable. Distant.

His hands tremble slightly, adjusting his tie, but it only looks more lopsided. How does Sherlock make it appear so bloody easy? Swearing under his breath for no good reason, he checks his watch. The clock front reflects his face, distorted and large.

Harry's car honks from the curb. She and her girlfriend, Jill, have agreed to drive him to the church. John grabs his jacket, wallet, and mobile, nearly tripping over the rug as he runs out to meet them.

"Today's the big day," says Harry, peering at him in the rearview mirror.

"You're telling me," he mutters.

"Don't be rude, Johnny," she says disapprovingly.

"I'm a bit nervous here," he retorts, by way of an excuse.

"Hey." She turns around, stretches her arm awkwardly at an angle to pat his knee. "She's a lucky woman."

"Thanks." He gazes out the window. Buildings rush by, black smudges against a dull gray backdrop.

They arrive at the church, John making his way blindly to a side room in which he is instructed to wait. Mary is out and about, getting primped by professional curling iron wielders and speaking with her bridesmaids, all of whom John met and none of whom he remembers. Because of the whole don't-see-the-bride-before-the-wedding business, he is fairly quarantined.

He doesn't know how long it's been – increments of time seem insignificant; his brain races with alternating blankness and thoughts of Sherlock – when there is a tentative knock on his door. Heart pounding, he opens it, and is both surprised and disappointed to see Molly.

"Hi," she says. "Er... alright if I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," he says, nonplussed. "You look nice."

"Thanks. Um, first of all, congratulations."

He inclines his head politely. "Thank you."

"Are you very anxious?"

He gives a shaky chuckle. "Little bit, yeah. I've been waiting for this, wanting this for so long, but now that it's here I feel... well." Molly's looking at him, earnest and open. "I don't feel as happy as I think I should."

"That's the thing," she says, biting her lip and faltering, "I – I thought you might be feeling that way."

"You did?"

"I just noticed how you were looking. Tired. Thin. Worse for wear. No offense," she amends hastily. "And the way you've been around Sherlock."

A sharp, involuntary intake of breath at the mere mention. "Please don't bring him up," he finds himself saying. His voice sounds strained even to his own ears.

She's practically wringing her hands; he does not need to be a genius to detect that she's got something important to say.

"What?" he asks impatiently.

"It's just that... John, do you love Mary?"

"Yes," he says automatically.

"You mean, romantically?"

"Yes. Of course." He has to move before he goes mad (though that's a bit of a foregone conclusion at this point), so he walks to the window, staring back at the sunlight streaming in.

"Oh."

"Is that all?"

"No." She joins him, jaw set, shoulders squared, fingers pressed against the sill. "John, I think you should know. Sherlock is miserable."

_Fuck_. Why? Why now? Why today? Is this really very necessary? John shuts his eyes, clamps them tight, as though he's five again and when he opens them again the scary clown will have disappeared round the corner. "No."

"_Yes_," she says emphatically. "He's been manic about this wedding, do you know that? He's hidden it from you. He's planned almost all of it, let everyone think Mary has, but he's done, I just caught him on the phone with an agency and he has his own little caterer network, a dozen professionals to make sure this goes off without a hitch... anyway. Too much information." She takes a deep breath. "He's devastated. I've never seen him do this before, not with a single case, and we both know he gets obsessed."

"No," says John loudly.

"He looks sad when he thinks you can't see him."

Is she trying to make his life difficult, nigh impossible? If so, she's succeeding. Brilliant job, Molly sodding Hooper. "No."

"He does. I've told him. He didn't deny it."

"What's your point?" he asks sharply, and she flinches slightly at the uncharacteristic edginess.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to impose –"

"Molly. I am getting married in less than two hours. I don't have time to psychoanalyze my friend."

"Is that it, then?"

"Is what it?"

"You and Sherlock. Friends. Is he just that – a friend? Only a friend?"

John can't formulate sentences. He grips the windowsill, watching in mild interest as color rapidly seeps out of his knuckles.

"John?"

"Go." His hip aches, and he's certain that the moment he tries to walk, his limp will have returned.

"John..."

"I know. Thank you for the good wishes. Goodbye, Molly." He's literally pushing her out of the room now.

"Wait!"

He slackens his grip at the shrillness of her cry. "What?"

She stands in the doorway, brow furrowed. "You know I fell in love with Sherlock."

"I am aware of this fact, yes." He has no idea where this is going, and is rather scared to find out.

"I know how easy it is to."

"To what, fall in love with him?"

She nods. "And I couldn't... he wasn't all there."

"He'll never be."

"No." She shakes her head. "That's where you're wrong. He's there, just not for me. Not for anyone, really."

"Your point being...?"

"John, Sherlock is there for you. Completely, uninhibitedly. _You_."

He feels faint. "What are you saying?"

"He's... you really don't know, do you? You can't tell?" She looks at him incredulously. "Sherlock loves y –"

"That's enough," John says in a panic, and slams the door in her face, sinking to the floor, arms around his knees. "Shit fuck god damn," he hisses, overcome with emotion. "Okay, okay." He grunts, getting to his feet, and stands in the middle of the room, collecting himself. "You love Mary," he says firmly. "Sherlock is a friend."

It doesn't sound remotely convincing.

_Sherlock._ That old bastard. Such an oddball. Such a miracle. Infuriatingly gorgeous, too. All black curls and cheekbones so sculpted it should be illegal. Intense, penetrating gaze, verdigris with a touch of chrysolite. Gaze that can read him, always could, always will.

A short and portly man suddenly barges unannounced into the room, red-faced and panting from the exertion.

"Um," says John.

"That man" – he gesticulates wildly – "is a _menace._"

"Who?" He has an inkling.

"That bloody... curly... haired... bloke." He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. "Your best man. You could not have made a poorer choice, sir."

Another fellow enters, younger and extremely frazzled. "I apologize," he says to John. "My father got a little carried away."

"What's going on...?"

"Well, your best man's a little intimidating, and I think he rather got to Dad, didn't he?" The older man can only nod. "We were hired for the wedding, didn't really get specific instructions aside from a hefty check and mysterious message. Told us to stay on the down low, that our participation was essential, and we were to make absolute certain that nothing got in the way of your special day."

This makes John's chest throb, as well as confirming Molly's claim regarding Sherlock's hidden involvement. Damn.

"Dad said he didn't see why we were really needed, said everything seemed to be going alright, then your best man started spouting all this stuff about how it was his fault you may be in danger – kind of lost it, if you ask me – and then said a bunch of stuff about my mum cheating on my dad five years ago and how it's reduced him to..." He licks his lips, eyes darting nervously about the room. "He didn't use the kindest words."

"I'm sorry, I want to make this good for you, I do," his father puts in. "I just... that man..."

"Is the best man I have ever had the good fortune to meet," John says tightly. The two men blink back at him. He sighs. "Look, I know he has a peculiar habit – more than one – and it can be unnerving. I don't know what he's got planned for today. I don't know anything about him, really, not now. However, I am the groom and it is my wish that you listen to Sherlock."

The younger chap's shoulders sag slightly. "Alright," he says. "It's your choice. Dad?"

"Fine," says his father, adjusting his collar and turning his back on John. "But I am _not_ apologizing. Crazy boffin."

John would be amused under any other circumstances, would laugh and give Sherlock grief about it later. These are not other circumstances, though. This is his wedding, and Sherlock has gone to immense care to ensure that nothing bad happens, that John is happy, because somehow, miraculously, that seems to be a priority of his.

_It was his fault you may be in danger._

Well, isn't he always? He's not an idiot; he knows that being associated with one of the most hated, feared, and envied men in the world is not the most secure of positions. But, frankly, he doesn't give a fuck. Because being associated with Sherlock, in any capacity, is more than he could ask for, and he's a proper lucky bastard to get so much as a genuine smile, a sarcastic remark, a freshly removed appendix on his kitchen counter.

_Sherlock loves y –_

Yeah, he's not going to think about that now.

_Sherlock loves y –_

Sometimes it's a liver, occasionally a kidney. Once it was a heart. Molly'd been livid.

_Sherlock loves y –_

A proper lucky bastard.

–––––

_Sherlock_

He steps outside to take a breather, adjusting his nicotine patch ever so subtly. John hasn't noticed. It will be quite some time until he does, if ever. Sherlock's got it under control. As long as he doesn't reach for the pack stowed away in his pocket, he'll be fine.

Besides, today is hardly about him and his unhappy addiction. He has many of those, come to that. John being one of them.

He's not daft. He knows the signs of... well, of this. Of whatever he's felt for the past four years. The symptoms are there. After a brief, hopeful research session, he was forced to conclude that his illness is not a physical one. No, it's a disease of the mind. A dreadful, all-encompassing infection. Not that he'd say anything, of course.

Footsteps approach from behind him. A swish of material gives it away. "Hello, Molly."

"I heard you had a bit of an altercation."

"Yes. Only because he insisted on using wheat and rye bread and I know for a fact that John's disliked the flavor of rye –"

"I know."

"You know? That can't be possible, you've spent very minimal time with –"

"No, I don't know. I mean, I know that you know."

"You're not making very much sense, I'm afraid." Sherlock pauses, takes mercy. "How's..." He searches his mind palace. Nada. The silence stretches on; she's twisting her mouth a bit mirthfully, waiting. Shit.

Think, think. Tall, objectively handsome, well turned-out, open face... ah.

"Tom...?"

"There it is. He's good. We're having quite a lot of sex."

His eyebrows fly involuntarily into his hairline. "That's... lovely. It's... nice that your coital endeavors are satisfactory."

"I don't know why I said that," she says, sounding appalled. Rightfully so. "Sorry."

"Might I suggest that you leave now."

"No, I –"

They are interrupted by a belligerent florist, who spots Sherlock and opens his mouth furiously. Before he can utter a thing, the detective looks at him squarely and says, "Soap."

The man flushes red, shoots him a loathing glare, and storms off without a word.

"You were saying?" he asks Molly mildly.

"Er... soap?"

"Oh, just a little blackmail. Pity, too. His girlfriend seems lovely, despite her anxiety issues and low IQ, and his grandmother was quite bright until the tumor became malignant. Poor soul."

"I don't want to know."

"Mm." He rocks back and forth on his heels slightly, gazing into the distance.

"So. John."

He stiffens and snaps sharply, "What?"

"You love him."

"What of it?"

"You don't deny it."

"I can't. I am not a liar."

"Then why haven't you told him?"

"He has not asked, and I..." He falters. Feelings are terribly incapacitating, this much is for certain. A knot grows in his throat. Anaphylactic shock would be infinitely simpler to manage, so much simpler than this... emotion. He hates it. "I... I have never been given reason to believe that he should feel the same."

"Right," Molly whispers, as though speaking louder might break him. It might.

"This is his wedding," Sherlock continues blindly. "He is happy with Mary, and I am happy if he is."

"That's cliche, and also not true."

"What part?"

"All of the above. You aren't happy if he's happy with Mary. You're happy if he's happy with you."

"Happiness is not an emotion with which I am closely acquainted."

"Except when you're with John."

He thinks of John's smile, John laughing at his jokes, and allows, "You could say that."

"He's also definitely not happy."

"What?"

"He's having a bit of a nervous breakdown, in fact, I've just been to see him."

"Nerves. That's all."

"He started to lose it when I mentioned you."

"Why on earth would you feel compelled to reference someone as insignificant as myself on his wedding day?"

"Because you're entirely significant."

The knot is growing. He does not have time for this. The college students he hired to oversee the third floor were only in it for the money, which they will inevitably exchange for copious amounts of illegal substances. To each his own.

"Sherlock."

"Yes," he says hoarsely. "I really must dash."

"Are you going to be okay? Watching everything. The vows."

"I'm familiar with the way a wedding works, Molly, and yes. I am fine."

"Really?"

He does not deign to respond – why in the world do people always need reassurance? They ask you a question, you answer, and roughly twenty-seven percent of the time follow it up with a "really?" or "honestly?" or otherwise maddeningly unnecessary sign of distrust – and pulls his sleeve securely down over his wrist. "I have business to attend to."

"Don't you always." Molly sighs.

"Please don't look at me with such concern. It's very unsettling."

"I can't help it. They're called _feelings_, Sherlock. I, unlike you, let them show."

"You, unlike me, wear your heart on your sleeve. So does John."

"So do you."

He scoffs. "Nonsense. It is one of my particularly infuriating qualities. Nobody can read me."

"I can."

"You don't count."

She flinches at this, as if he's just thrown a dart at her. A marginal amount of guilt edges its way into his chest. Doesn't matter.

"Now, I have –"

"You little bitch," says Molly.

"I –"

"Go attend to your _business._ You can apologize later."

"I've got nothing to apologize for."

"How _dare_ you?"

"I'm sorry. I don't understand –"

"You never do, do you? You just stalk around, taking everything for granted, disregarding how many people actually give a flying fuck about you –"

"I really would revise your vernacular, if I were you. It can come across as quite uneducated."

"I'm _so_ sorry I _ever_ tried to help you," she says, making incensed hand motions.

"Apology unfounded, but accepted."

"That was sarcasm, Sherlock."

"Oh. Nevertheless." He checks his watch. "I'll see you inside."

She's crossing her arms. Defensive. Hurt. He'll put together some sort of "I'm sorry" bollocks later. Right now his mind is reeling with free-floating equations and worst-case scenarios and John.

He stops just shy of the threshold, turns. "Molly?"

"Yes?" she asks breathlessly. What, does she think he's about to pour his heart out, that something might have changed in the last thirteen seconds?

"That's quite a nice dress, given the bargain price and the minimal wear, as indicated by –"

"Get lost."

He pauses. She looks rather angry at this point, and to say that angry girls are not his area would be a massive understatement. "Right." Sherlock shuts the door behind him and leans against the wall, feeling weak. "Right."


	6. Before

_John_

He practically jumps a mile when his mobile vibrates. It's a text from Mycroft.

_I'm here. _

Puzzled, John replies,

**Okay. Why are you telling me?**

_You know this is difficult for Sherlock._

**What are you on about?**

_Don't tell him I'm here._

**He'll know you are. He can tell.**

_Not when he's emotionally distracted, like he is now._

**Are you going to do anything shady?**

_No promises._

_Just kidding. I want to make sure he's ok. Lestrade never responded to my text about how Sherlock's been, though inside sources inform me that he's been quite maniacal about this business._

**It's my wedding, why do people keep calling it 'this business'?**

_Because it's directly affecting Sherlock. Do try to keep up._

John represses the urge to chuck his phone at the wall and instead shuts it off. He is goddamn sick and tired of people criticizing him for getting married, ostracizing him for his life decisions, acting as if he should care first and foremost about what Sherlock thinks...

It is possible that he is over exaggerating. Ever so slightly.

He sighs. He's been sighing a lot lately, a considerably disturbing habit that makes him feel like an old man in a nursing home. Also swearing. Swearing has gotten noticeably worse. Sherlock is definitely responsible for that. Always getting on his last nerve, generally to the point where the most vulgar words can't even begin to express his anger. Stupid.

It's half an hour until he's needed in the chapel. He tries to massage his leg, which is predictably cramping up, to no avail. Sherlock would probably make some snarky remark if he were here, force John to snap out of it just to spite him.

There is a knock on the door. Can't people just leave him alone?

"Who is it?" he calls.

"Greg."

"Ah." Why? Why on earth? Why does everyone suddenly have to give their two cents about his own fucking wedding and yammer on about how it affects his friend so badly, blah blah blah?

He adds catastrophizing to his growing list of bad habits. Also thanks to Sherlock.

"Come in."

Greg pokes his head in. "May I?"

"I believe my exact words were, 'Come in.'"

"Touchy. I don't blame you."

"What is it, Lestrade?" Don't sigh.

"Er, this is actually a little silly, to be honest, but Mary's caught up at the moment and I –"

"If it's about Sherlock I swear to god I will –"

"What? No, no, not at all." He pauses. "Wait. What about Sherlock?"

"Nothing. What are you talking about?"

"Are you alright? You look a little... more nervous than usual."

"It's my wedding day."

"Yes, but..." He quells at the expression on John's face. "Never mind that. Do you know all of the guests?"

"I don't have the list memorized."

"Do you know who would?"

"A certain mule-headed detective."

"You can forget that then. He's going crazy out there."

"Sorry. You can try me. Who are you looking for?"

"Er... just a last name will suffice." He looks embarrassed.

"Is this for a case?"

"Not really, no."

John is getting impatient. "Just shoot me a name, I'll see if I know them."

"Alright. Ahem. Lucy?"

Comprehension dawns. John starts laughing.

"What?" Lestrade crosses his arms defensively.

"This is about a _girl?_"

"Yeah, so?"

"This is – Christ, Lestrade – you're really – you need my help to pick up a girl at my wedding?"

"Hey, we met like an hour ago, she went off with some friends, and I don't know how to reach her." He holds up his phone. "Thought I'd do some, um..."

"Stalking? God, you're crazy."

Lestrade is blushing. What has the world come to? "Not _stalking_, I just figured I'd try to, like... friend her on Facebook?"

"Friend her on Facebook. Because she'll definitely be Facebooking at this exact moment."

"Please. I really like her."

Don't sigh, don't sigh, don't sigh. "Fine. Lucy, huh?"

"She has dark hair and she wears glasses. They're an interesting shape, sort of rectangular but with a flare out on the edges, if that makes sense?" He clears his throat and starts over. "Imagine combining half of an almond shape with half of a rectangle. And attach spectacles to them. It."

"Please stop. Lucy's a friend of Harry's from uni. I don't know her last name, but I just so happen to be friends with her on Facebook, so if you had any sense at all you could've gone to my friends list and done your stalking there."

"It's not stalking."

John pushes him firmly out the room.

–––––

_Sherlock_

He knocks, feeling unusually courteous (normally, he would take the liberty of barging in. This time, permission seems necessary). Heart pounds. Deep breath. Oxygen, the final electron acceptor, filling his lungs. Mind still spinning from his conversation with Molly, his altercation with the florist, and everything in between.

John takes several moments to open the door. Sherlock waits, until footsteps make him turn around.

"Sherlock. Oh."

"That's a ringing endorsement," he says dryly. It's Mary, and she's dressed in an absurd white pastry-reminiscent affair. Still, he can't help but feel a gut-wrenching punch called reality. This is happening. For whatever reason, this absurd attire marks Mary Morstan as the _one_, the woman designated to spend the rest of her life with John (unless they get divorced, but Sherlock is not one to get his hopes up).

"Sorry. Wrong floor."

"Congratulations," he says tightly.

She casts him an odd look. "Thank you. I'll see you down there."

Elevator dings, Mary's gone. Sherlock waits some more.

The door swings open. John. Sherlock, breathless, takes inventory, filing the sight away in his mind palace. Tuxedo, tie, anxious, a crumb of toast flecking the corner of John's bottom lip. He wants to swipe it away, feel that mouth beneath his trembling fingers. In the glow the sun casts from the window, his best friend is beautiful. Forget how to breathe.

"Well?" John's voice, husky with emotion. "Do I look alright?"

Words, phrases, superlatives catch in Sherlock's throat. _You're majestic, you're flawless, please god call it off I beg of you. Kiss me, touch me, hold me. _Christ. Instead, "Yes."

"So this is it."

They stand. Tension juxtaposed with calm. Listening to each other breathe.

Breathing: the basis of life, so fragile, so easily forgotten, especially in the presence of John.

"Your tie's crooked," Sherlock says.

"Right. I'm not good at..." His sentence peters out at Sherlock takes a step closer, wraps a hand around the knot, tugs it into place. Fingers, warm, pressed against his chest. He can feel John's heartbeat. Five points of contact that feel far more intimate than they should.

They stay like that, inches from each other, for a solid minute, until John says hoarsely,

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"I don't... is it... Molly."

Sherlock's heart breaks, a slow and excruciating process. "It's fine," he says. "You don't have to."

"But I – I need you to know –"

Fear, a sharp dagger, stabs Sherlock in the solar plexus. "No," he says quickly. "This is your wedding day. You will enjoy it. I can guarantee that you'll appreciate the –"

John suddenly bridges the gap between them, tilts his head up, presses his lips against Sherlock's. Once, twice. Sherlock is terrified to move, his mouth going slack against John's, arms frozen at his sides even as John's come up to grip his elbows. He returns the gesture on the third try, tiny explosions of light and overwhelmingly saturated shapes blossoming in his mind's eye.

And then the groom – Mary's groom, not his, never his – pulls away, anxiety, but no trace of regret, in his eyes.

"Thank you," John says. "I love..."

Sherlock is transfixed, lips hypersensitive to the breeze ruffling the curtains through the open window, and John is the only person in the world who exists. "Yes?" he whispers.

John backs away, realization clouding his features. _Oh, John._ "I love... I can't..."

"Me too."

John can't do this. Sherlock can't do this. Not now. Not like this. Not standing in the building where John is about to marry another person.

"Your tie's straight now," Sherlock says softly. He musters a smile that isn't quite a smile. "Go get married, John."

And John does.


	7. After

_Mycroft_

Sherlock goes missing halfway through the ceremony. Mycroft, from his post, is the only one who notices. He catches Mrs. Hudson's eye and gestures subtly; she immediately gets up and joins him.

"He left," Mycroft says in an undertone.

"Is he alright?"

"No."

She wrings her hands. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I need you to find out where he is what he's up to. If he's out there smoking please inform him that I will kick him where it counts."

"He doesn't know how lucky he is to have a brother who cares like you do," she says, patting his cheek fondly.

"Don't touch me, please, Hudson," says Mycroft disdainfully. "Off you go."

She has been gone only ninety seconds when Sherlock reappears. How he managed to slip off in the first place without anyone seeing remains a mystery.

Mycroft watches his baby brother shift awkwardly, shuffle his feet, assume a resolute, somewhat murderous expression. It is the most pitifully obvious internal struggle that the older man has ever been forced to witness. Only when the tall chap in front of him moves slightly is it that he can see Sherlock's lips moving.

It takes a moment to figure it out. Mycroft is not an emotional person, but this. Fucking _this. _

Sherlock is repeating all of Mary's wedding vows under his breath.

Oh, Sherlock.

He's jiggling his left leg up and down, a small movement nobody else would notice. One of Sherlock's tells. He stood like that in the center of the sitting room, scowling and jiggling his left leg, the day they told him Redbeard had died.

Mycroft has to remind himself of the whole not-an-emotional-person business.

"Oh, he's back." Mrs. Hudson appears at his elbow. Then, in utter shock, "Are you...?"

"I'm not crying," Mycroft insists defensively. "I'm trying to hear the vicar."

"Isn't there someone special in your life?"

"I'd very much appreciate it if you returned to your seat," says Mycroft firmly.

She nods sagely. "That means yes. What's their name?"

"Your seat, Mrs. Hudson, please."

"I'll get it out of you," she says, beaming.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and redirects his attention.

"...Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Mycroft turns his line of sight sharply to his brother, and watches as Sherlock's lower lip trembles, as his gaze darkens. Well, shit.

The audience waits in characteristic tension, because even though someone rarely ever says anything, there's the bald fact that someone out there is probably thinking it.

Mycroft knows who that particular someone is.

And as the vicar opens his mouth to pronounce them husband and wife, he watches that someone's face crumple ever so slightly, watches that someone leave. And this time Mycroft does not send anybody out to find them, because he knows exactly where they will be, and that he will, indeed, kick the angst-ridden goddamn _feeling _detective where it counts.

–––––

_John_

He doesn't see Sherlock for the next three weeks, the longest twenty-one days of his life. After disappearing from the wedding, no explanation is given. Mycroft reads and does not respond to his increasingly frantic texts. Except one, when he desperately asks,

**Is he dead?!**

To which Mycroft responds with a condescending,

_Please._

And that is the quantity of information he has to work with.

Mary asks after the detective a great deal, of course. "You two are best mates, don't let me come between you," she says worriedly one night. "Are you avoiding him?"

"No. He's not talking to me." He sounds a bit like a petulant tyke, and does not have a shit to give.

"Oh, darling." Mary takes his hands in hers and says firmly, "Go visit him."

"I don't know if..." His mind wanders, as it tends to recently.

John has dreams about Sherlock every night. Their kiss(es). Sherlock's face, the intensity, so blinding he wanted to look away, but couldn't. The warmth of Sherlock's knuckles resting lightly against his chest.

He, John Watson, kissed effing Sherlock Holmes. And it was perfect and real and right and totally wrong.

"Sweetheart?"

"If that's a good idea," he finishes hastily. "Sorry, zoned out a bit."

She gives him a concerned peck on the cheek. "Please don't... don't give up this friendship on my behalf."

"It isn't your fault."

"Hm. Alright." She isn't entirely convinced. Neither is he.

–––––

Sunday, May 12, 2013

_Sherlock_

"John," Sherlock says, paling. It's two o'clock in the morning and his old partner is standing in the doorway.

"Why haven't you told me about new cases?" John snaps accusingly. "I know you've got them –"

"I don't know –"

"Of course you know." John babbles when he gets flustered. Unfortunate habit. "What, have you got a new sidekick? Better than me?"

"No, and no. I don't believe there is anybody in existence who could be a better 'sidekick' than one John Watson," Sherlock answers quietly.

John seems marginally pacified at this pronouncement. At any rate, he comes off his soapbox and stands inside, looking lost. "My chair's gone," he says.

"Yes. It was blocking my view to the kitchen."

John processes this. Sherlock is trembling, wondering, still rather shocked. He may need to breathe into a paper bag soon. "Sherlock, can we talk?"

Instinct. "No."

"Oh."

The images rise to the surface, unbidden, unwanted. John coming nearer. His lips, soft and pliant, on Sherlock's. With one touch, he lifted away all the hardness and coldness and defenses that had been so ridiculously essential in Sherlock's life for the past three decades.

"Well, um."

"Please leave." Sherlock can't take this.

"What?"

"I believe you said it yourself," Sherlock reminds him. "You said 'I can't,' and I agreed."

"That was – I'm not here to –"

"I can't, John." Sherlock feels himself slowly coming undone.

"I can't do... I can't _that_, but can we... friends?"

That's it? That's all Sherlock gets. After everything. He isn't surprised. It is human nature to be selfish and cold and rejection is a powerful tool, a tool which he has never fully accepted as a method of destruction before. He does now.

"Sherlock?"

Too many feelings. Heartbeat thrumming. John in boxers and a cotton t shirt. Wet hair. So many mornings. Cups of tea, loaves and loaves worth of toast. Dry toast, sometimes, or marmalade. Heads bent over a body in the alleyway. John's diagnoses, each one so beautiful and breathtaking, spoken in his smooth, reassuring voice.

"I'm sorry," John whispers.

"Myself as well," Sherlock finds himself saying stiffly.

"Is this... space."

"You're not making sense."

"I bloody well am not!" He spins round and kicks the air, as if he's a bull in a ring rearing at a red flag. Frustration. Easy diagnosis. "You're – god, Sherlock."

"Alright." Deep, even breaths. There you go.

"Space is good, yeah?" John looks slightly maniacal. "You know, because I can't, and you can't, and even if I could, you wouldn't, and let's have _space!" _He twirls his hands wildly, sarcastically, as if "space" is something to celebrate. Sherlock is fairly certain it is not.

"Fine," says Sherlock. "If you really want that."

"Yep," says John. He has a decidedly deranged look in his eyes. Not good. "It's just what I want. Fine proposition, eh, Sherlock?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

They cross their arms, defiant stare-off. Sherlock wins. He's got that going for him, at least. One final shred of dignity.

John's mobile buzzes. "I've got to get home," he mutters. A flush creeps up his neck. He must be realizing his behavior, or lack thereof. Good. He ought to feel embarrassed. Sherlock is embarrassed for him. Tantrums like the one John just threw are precisely why Sherlock refuses to embrace emotion. "Goodbye."

He's halfway to the landing when Sherlock calls, "John."

John stops so fast he nearly falls over. Why? What does he expect Sherlock to do now? People are exhausting. "Yes."

"I'll tell Lestrade to unblock your number. I see no reason why you shouldn't be allowed back on the playing field, so to speak."

"You blocked my number? Jesus Christ."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"What?"

"Triple homicide. Fascinating material."

"You're fucking mental."

Sherlock considers this. "Yes," he concedes. John's looking up at him bleakly. _Kiss me, touch me, hold me. _

Feelings are an abominable and unacceptable disrespect to the human mind.

"Goodbye, John."

–––––

Sunday, November 17, 2013

_John_

"Why is Anderson here?" Sherlock asks. "I'm afraid lowering the IQ of this corpse would be deemed somewhat impolite. Although the victim _was_ picking fights in a dark alleyway with an established enemy, so it's plausible that his IQ was already –"

"I'm done," Anderson says, and stalks off to the patrol car.

Lestrade suppresses a groan. "Skipping over the fact that you're casually criticizing a dead man's IQ, I presume you've solved it?"

"Is that even a question?" To John's surprise, Sherlock does not go into theatre mode as he usually does; there is no dramatic pacing or finger-steepling or scathing verbal attacks when Lestrade asks a less-than-genius question. Instead, he simply clarifies, "They killed him, panicked, and dragged the body to the nearest unlocked flat, which unfortunately happened to be for sale. Probably turned the prospective buyers off a bit, walking into an open house and seeing a bleeding carcass on the carpet. Too bad. I'm still working out the details of the precise motive."

"Right."

Sherlock hums to himself, turning his attention back on the puzzle at hand. Conversation over.

Lestrade takes this opportunity to approach John and mutter, "John, a word?"

Sherlock's so beautiful like this, all skill and dexterity, snapping on a pair of gloves, extracting his investigative kit, brow furrowed in concentration. He hasn't spoken to John the entire time. It hurts. God, it hurts. John's reduced to overanalyzing even the simplest "good morning" or "rainy outside, isn't it," trying desperately to find some hidden meaning. But the detective doesn't operate like that. There are no shades of gray, no subtext, with Sherlock.

Lestrade's watching him, rather more keenly than John is comfortable with. "John?"

"What? Oh, of course." He follows the detective inspector to a covert corner and stands, feet spread slightly apart, one wrist looped through the other hand behind his back. "What's up?"

Greg coughs and jerks his head towards Sherlock, who is squinting at a hair sample extracted from the victim's fleece. "I'm concerned about him."

Surprised, John asks the obvious question. "Why?"

"He seems closed off."

"He's always closed off." Even to John. _Sherlock is there for you. Completely, uninhibitedly. You._ Wouldn't be the first time Molly was wrong.

"No, more so than usual." Both men are silent, silently scrutinizing their co worker. "Listen." Lestrade grits his teeth, rolls his shoulders as if he's prepared to go into battle. "I care about – about Sherlock."

John raises an eyebrow. "Yes. I think we all do."

"Don't forget, I'm the one who sent a fucking helicopter to the flat when Sherlock needed help writing his best man speech. Clearly, I –"

"Wait, what?"

"Hm? Oh, he didn't tell you. I was about to close a case, the case of a sodding _lifetime_, really, when Sherlock sent several frantic texts begging for help. All caps, made it sound urgent. I thought the bloke must be dying or something. Naturally, I dispatched an entire bloody squad to 221b, called for maximum back-up, and walked in to find Sherlock with a book entitled 'How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech.' Told me, and I quote, 'This is really hard, hardest thing I've ever had to do' – well, anyway. Point is, I care about him." He pauses. "Has he said anything to you?"

The fact that Sherlock, with whom he has spent very limited time in the past year, asked Greg Lestrade for help on his best man speech, makes John feel very, very guilty. "No," he says, with more than a twinge of guilt, "we haven't really, er, been... talking, exactly."

"Ah."

"So..."

Lestrade shuts his eyes, gathering his thoughts. He is acting quite odd about this whole thing. John can see why Sherlock gets so impatient with him. Finally he blurts out, "Is he taking drugs again?"

"_What?_ Bloody hell, Lestrade, where did that come from?"

"I – I'm sorry. I saw – I suspected – I think I saw a nicotine patch. Thought maybe he's gotten addicted again."

"When?"

Greg grimaces. "A couple times, last few cases we were on. When he was putting his gloves on, and once he started to roll up his sleeves, then stopped and rolled them back down with a look around as if to ensure no one saw him."

Sherlock. Sherlock on drugs. Sherlock taking drugs. Sherlock addicted. Nicotine patches. All John's fault. He is a horrible friend, a horrible man, a horrible –

"Goodbye," Sherlock says crisply from across the room, and moves to leave. He will not look John's way.

"Wait!" calls Lestrade. "Are you going to tell us how you solved it?"

Sherlock's gaze flickers to John, then back again. He stiffens. "I shall email you the results."

"But you did solve it. Completely."

The detective shoots Greg a withering glance. "Of course I did, you daft moron." He reaches to pull his jacket off the hook, and John sees it.

A strip of tan band-aid material, sharp contrast across pale skin.

_Sherlock._

He should have known. Should have known that distance wasn't good, wasn't the right choice, would never be, with them. Should have told Sherlock full-out how he feels – well, no, that's not right. Never will be. He can't entertain the very idea.

_Sherlock._

He feels his pulse racing, everything moving in slow motion as the detective wraps himself in his coat, evens out the sleeves, takes his wool scarf and passes it fluidly over his shoulder. Nods curtly at a distressed Lestrade, stony silence reaching out like something tangible and throttling John.

_Sherlock._

The door shuts behind him. Greg makes a helpless noise and goes to pack up.

_Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._

Mary's calling him. Numb, he shuts off his phone, has half a mind to chuck it out the window. His appearance in Sherlock's life put an end to the addiction; logically, his disappearance must have had the opposite effect.

_Sherlock._

A surge of adrenaline, of fury at himself and at Mary and at Lestrade and at Sherlock and at the whole sodding world, pumps through his veins. He sprints out of the apartment, feet pounding, and yells, "Sherlock!"

He's on the street now. The man couldn't have gone far. There he is, a painfully familiar curly head bobbing above the crowds. He fights his way past crying babies and dog-walkers.

"Sherlock!"

Slowly, hesitantly – he's positive that the bastard heard him from the instant he started running, and simply chose not to respond (but why would he? John abandoned him, John chose Mary) – Sherlock stops. Turns around. Says, as John draws near, "You saw."

"Yes," John pants.

"I see." He stares at the ground. "I assume you've jumped to conclusions already."

"Take it off."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The patch, the patch. Take it off." He's making wild orders, tall orders, as if he has any right to dictate the detective's actions at this point.

Comprehension dawns on Sherlock's face. Pulling his arm protectively to his chest, he shakes his head. "Ah. I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"Mistaken? Lestrade noticed it, you prat! Why wouldn't you say anything to me?"

He blanches a little, but his voice remains steady. "John, your anger is irrational. You're defensive, and this emotion, when experienced by you, almost always manifests itself in hostility."

"I don't bloody care! I don't care!" shouts John. Passersby are veering away from them, and he still doesn't care.

"Why should I have told you about this?" Sherlock inquires.

"I – I –"

"I was under the impression that 'space' was best for us."

"Not for us, for you."

"You are a selfish man, John Watson. You cannot force decisions and opinions upon other people, only to go back on said decisions and proceed to denigrate the victim."

"_Victim? _You're victimizing yourself, Sherlock? Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, color rapidly draining from his face. "I am. I accept that you are with Mary. However, it was never my intention to lose your companionship, and I will admit that I was... injured by your proposition. As much as I was involved in the decision and consented to going our separate ways, I cannot say that I previously imagined it transpiring as it has. Particularly considering the events before the wedding. I guess I had hoped... I don't know. But your coldness has –"

"I couldn't handle it!" John explodes. "I couldn't handle us. Our friendship. Being with – with you, and with Mary – it didn't work – it wouldn't work. You don't understand."

"No. I do not. I don't suppose I ever will. You are irrational, in addition to selfish."

If John is a zero-to-sixty type of person, he is at about 110 right now. "Don't you _dare_ call me selfish, you daft old sod!"

"It is merely the truth." Sherlock's voice is shaking now, too, and John is to blame.

"Just show me," he says, lowering his tone to a barely-controlled rumble. Sherlock looks at him, says nothing. He seizes the man's shoulders and gives him a proper shake, bellowing, "Show me!"

"Fine!" barks Sherlock, an outburst that stuns John into momentary silence. He has never heard Sherlock yell, not like that. "What do you want?"

"Take the damn thing off," John says through gritted teeth.

"Fine," Sherlock repeats, this time much quieter, resigned. He unbuttons his cuff and slowly peels back the bandage. John peers at his wrist, feels his heart break.

_Sherlock._


	8. Faults

_Author's note –_ WOW! Updates updates.Alright, this has become really angsty, and I'm totally going with it. I have random fragments written up for future chapters, and I can guarantee right now that this is absolutely not the end of their rollercoaster relationship, for better or for worse. I hope I'm not tormenting you guys too much.

A huge thank you to everyone who's favorited, followed, and reviewed this fic. I get the hugest goofiest silliest grin on my face when I read your reviews, and I'm so glad that at least someone is enjoying my writing. So thank you, and please keep it up.

Lastly (this is **important**) I feel obligated to give a little **trigger warning:** this contains references to self-harm, cutting, and the like. If that is a sensitive topic for you (and I completely understand, having gone through it myself), you can skim it, as I do get a little graphic. Quick summary, just so you don't miss out on plot (**SPOILER ALERT **if you're going to read the chapter in its entirety): John discovers that Sherlock's been self-harming in his absence to deal with the feelings of abandonment. Mycroft confirms that the best thing to do is for John to leave Sherlock alone. Tall orders, tall orders.

_Sherlock_

John's eyes widen with a sharp intake of breath as he sees what Sherlock has spent the past six months attentively concealing.

Thin, deep cuts (or their remnants, now; Sherlock has not purchased new razors in close to a week). Ten, to be exact, placed exactly perpendicular to his median antebrachial vein. Once an angry scarlet, now the sickly light brown of dried blood, scabbing, and scar tissue.

Appalled, John lets out a small whimper, a little _oh_ escaping his lips, and the tail end of a _why?_

Sherlock stares straight ahead, eyes fixated on a section of gray wall behind him. Comfortingly bland. He takes a deep breath and says, "I am aware that I have entered into a cycle of self-mutilation, which can only exacerbate psychological vulnerabilities while being simultaneously calming, due to the corresponding release of endorphins perversely associated with the 'high,' so to speak, of the said behavior, this illusion being perpetuated by the incorrect, ultimately self-destructive inception of repetitive neural patterns. I apologize if I have concerned you."

John gapes at him, shuts his eyes. He looks as though he is in severe pain. "Sherlock," he says.

Sherlock hastily pulls his sleeve back down. "It's fine," he says. It's not.

"How long have you...?"

The cat's out of the bag now; he might as well be honest. His mouth is dry with anxiety and sadness and fear as he presses on blindly. "Since after the wedding. I suppose I felt... abandoned. I was abandoned, in virtually all senses of the word. You chose Mary, over me. And I just couldn't handle 'space' but I couldn't handle anything else when it came to you, either. I was alone; the pain of loss was too sharp, too excruciating, and I am not one accustomed to emotions. Losing you somehow magnified the voices, effectively ignored until this point, telling me that I am, in fact, no good. Not worth living, really. So I turned to this." He shrugs. "Whenever I felt bad, if I heard your name, or glanced at your chair, I picked up a razor. It dulled the emotional pain. I realize that this is far from a salubrious manner of consoling myself, but it's what I have." This conversation is so very tiring; he is weary, weary of watching John across the room while his chest grows heavier and heavier, weary of waking in the middle of the night because he remembers that kiss, weary of days filled with analyzing bloody wounds, only to return home and inflict his own.

He is cautious, deliberate, clean about it. Careful, as he is with most other things. Recklessness has not served him well in the past, and the man standing before him is an excellent example of this. When everything is spinning out of control, self harm gives him a sense of safety. He is the master of his own pain. How deep, how long, at what angle the blade pierces his skin – it is up to him, where his feelings are not. The first few times he gazed in astonishment at the small crimson beads, breathed in the piquant sting, felt the calm. Now it is commonplace.

John looks as if he is going to cry or punch a wall. "Sherlock, I – I don't know what to say."

"Yes, well, I have errands to run, so –"

"Don't you fucking go off and buy more sodding knives," says John, grabbing Sherlock's arm.

"I..." That is, in fact, what he was planning to do. Has he grown more predictable? How unpleasant. "I'm going back to the flat."

"I'm coming with you."

"Please, John, that's really not necessary."

"I insist." The set of John's jaw is alarming. Defiant, stubborn, angry (at himself?), hurt. Sherlock has rarely seen him so determined.

"Are you... okay?"

"No, I'm bloody _not_ okay. How are you supposed to fucking feel when you find out that you drove your fucking best mate to cutting, when you could have simply stayed?"

"I didn't want you to stay. It isn't as if you had a choice in getting married. You were in no position to call off your own wedding, particularly given your love and connection with Mary."

"This is my fault."

"That is where you are wrong, John," Sherlock says firmly. "The feelings indirectly spurred by your actions fed my drive to self-destruction, yes. But my reaction was entirely my own. Nobody can force another to cut. You must understand that."

"No, Sherlock, no _fucking_ thing you say is going to change my mind. It's my fucking fault and –" John's voice breaks. Sherlock does not know what to do, cannot handle or risk hugging him, though that is probably the appropriate response in such a situation. "How can you do this?"

"I did not intend for you to ever find out."

"Clearly. I mean, god, Sherlock. When were you going to_ stop?_ I mean, you couldn't have thought you could just go on like this, not get help. Doesn't Mycroft know?"

"Mycroft is a tad involved at the moment. He's currently engaged in a flirtation with a young lady named Kate, and has therefore been lax about surveilling me."

"So who were you going to tell?"

"I believe the obvious answer is no one."

"You couldn't have confided in –"

"John," Sherlock interrupts. It is imperative for his friend (if he can be called that anymore, which is a little doubtful) to understand. "It isn't your fault. What's done is done. Nothing, nobody, could have prevented this. And no, I was not going to stop. Self harm became as essential as eating and drinking. A routine, no more, no less. Simple. Easy."

"Sherlock, I..." John's voice breaks. "You need to stop. I'll do anything. How can I help?"

Sherlock looks at him sadly. _Break up with Mary. Miraculously fall in love with me. Kiss me. _All equally impossible scenarios. "You can't. Go back to your life."

"I refuse to –"

"_John._" He is surprised at the emotion bubbling up, the strain of keeping everything under wraps at all time, and damned if he is about to let John watch him fall apart. "Go home. Go back to Mary. Please. For me."

John is openly crying. Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would be embarrassed. But this is not other circumstances. These tears are for him, precisely why he cannot allow himself to be in John's life any longer. If anything, this is his fault, isn't it? He started it, he complicated things, he fell in love, and he drove John to this state.

"It's too soon. I invested much of my life in you, and four years cannot be forgotten in six months. Considering this development" – he gestures ruefully to his wrist – "I think it is most prudent for us to keep a distance. I do not want to cause you any more grief. I _can_not. I... my life was never messy, until you. And at first, I must admit, I was intoxicated with such disorder. I experienced a broad variety of emotions that, to my feeling-depraved self, were simultaneously beautiful and overwhelming. I will not attempt to deny that. But there is a reason I have shied away from complicated situations, and this is why. It's my fault, John. I have upset you, caused you inexpressible stress. I cannot in good conscience continue to haunt your existence."

"You are a fucking _idiot!"_ John shouts. "You think you can just leave me, just like that, just give me a taste of my own medicine while I sit back and twiddle my thumbs, _knowing_ that someone I love is hurting themselves, because they can't deal with feelings that _I _provoked? You're not 'haunting my existence'! Far from it! So far it's in another fucking _galaxy!_ You've made my existence brighter, better, in so, _so_ many ways. I can't even... Jesus fucking _Christ_, Sherlock. My god, you're... you've done so much for me."

Sherlock feels his throat begin to constrict. Breaking down leads to irreparable damage, and he must avoid further damage at all costs. He tears himself from John's eyes, so saturated with emotion that it's physically blinding, and walks away.

"Don't –"

Sherlock swallows hard. A single tear betrays him, trickles down his cheekbone, and he turns his head to conceal it.

"Sherlock –" John is panting, keeping up with his pace.

"Please go back to Mary. This is... too much."

"But I love –"

Sherlock stops so abruptly that the people behind them almost collide with his back. Casting him dirty looks, they veer around the two men. "John, I've reserved you and Mary a hotel in Bora Bora. The wait list was quite long, but I received an email today that your spot has opened up. All expenses paid. I pulled a few questionable strings to do so, which doesn't matter now, as the parties involved are indisposed. I didn't murder them," he feels it is necessary to clarify, and John gives a watery half-chuckle. "I've faxed Mary the tickets and itinerary already. You two never went on a real honeymoon. Now you can."

"You're insane," John says, shaking his head. "I'm not going."

"You must."

"I can't leave you like this."

"Then I will be forced to leave you, which, rest assured, is the last thing I want to do."

"No."

"Yes."

"I won't."

Sherlock can't breathe. He stops, has to lean against a telephone pole for support. "Go, John."

"What if I don't? What if I just show up at the flat? What if I move in again?"

"We both know that isn't going to happen."

"I won't leave you alone, you know."

"Bora Bora has –"

"SOD BORA BORA! Sod everything! The only thing I care about is _you_, Sherlock. You can't keep pushing people away like this! It isn't _fair!_"

"I have no other options." John's determination is frightening. Sherlock feels a panic attack edging its way into his mind palace, a figure dressed in white, a pulsing red button. "I have many resources. You know that. And I will regrettably be forced to utilize them, if you cannot accept my request and walk away, right now."

"Sherlock?" The expression on John's face is terrifying. Sherlock has never seen such twisted features, such pain, such blatant agony. Mouth contorted, muscles twitching as he cries, water droplets hanging off his delicate eyelashes, forehead wrinkles bluntly apparent, hands clenching and unclenching with the effort of staying calm. Sherlock starts hyperventilating, sinking into terror, the arms of an old friend. His fault. Always his fault.

And so he runs.

–––––

_John_

He stumbles into the house, thankfully empty, and fumbles for his phone. Sherlock, wiry and agile as always, is long gone. Lost in a sea of other faces, other heads. _Fuck._

He dials the number. "Mycroft," he says hoarsely.

"John. How's life in paradise?"

"Fucking hell."

"Harsh words. Fighting with the wife?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock is cutting."

"Come again?"

"He's hurting himself. Razors. Knives. I don't know. He's miserable."

"Well, any fool could've told you that. Did you see him at the wedding?"

Heat radiating off of Sherlock's skin, lips slightly dry, soft as they slid against his. "Yes."

"Then you would've noticed."

"I didn't."

"Hm. I believe Molly –"

"THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD NOTICED BUT ME!" John roars. "That's not the goddamn point."

"So Sherlock is... self-injuring?"

"Yes," he says bitterly. "It's my fault."

"Don't jump the gun." Mycroft is thrown; John can hear it in his wary intonation. He keeps his voice impressively level. "What did you say when he told you? I thought you two were taking space, actually. That was the impression I got from Mrs. Hudson."

"How did she know?"

A sigh. "It was perfectly obvious. She ran into Sherlock crying over an old newspaper article about the two of you and –"

"Don't fucking guilt trip me, Mycroft."

"Touchy, are we? It's true. Neither here nor there, though."

"Sherlock didn't confide in me." He is shaking so hard he may well drop the mobile on the tiled floor. "Lestrade was suspicious, thought it was the drugs, and I confronted him."

"Remind me to thank Greg later. For now, I need you to do this." He pauses. "I assume that Sherlock sent you off, told you to go have your own life, something to that effect?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"This is my brother we're talking about. I know him far too well."

"Well, I shouldn't leave him, right?"

"As a matter of fact, you should."

"Are you _mad?_"

"Sherlock is not good with emotions, which is a universal fact, really. Falling in l –"

"Don't," John says sharply.

Mycroft doesn't ask questions, thank god, and amends, "Getting _involved_ with you, developing your friendship, only to see you go off with someone else, took an enormous toll on his brain. Overworked it, nearly to death. He will miss you and pine for you and feel the pain no matter what, but with you out of his life, he can recuperate. In the long run, it is best if you respect his wishes."

John leans sideways against the windowsill, cool glass against his flushed face. "Can you help him?"

"I will."

"Do you promise?"

"My word is good."

"What will you do?"

"I know people who are knowledgeable about these things."

"Can you get him therapy?"

"I would like to, as it has done wonders for myself and many of my acquaintances, but I don't know how conducive a therapist would be to Sherlock's state of mind right now. Down the road, yes. I will push it then. But right now... right now he needs something else."

"What?"

"I don't know. I'll figure it out."

"Can I keep talking to you? I can't... it can't be like this, I can't be in the dark."

"I will give you updates, however vague, in the form of infrequent texts and/or phone calls. You do care deeply for my brother."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Then I would say that you deserve to know what's happening."

"I don't know as I deserve anything, at this point."

"Everyone deserves things, John. Listen, I need to go to Baker Street, I'm hailing a cab right now."

"That was fast."

"He's my baby brother. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him. If you relay that message I will destroy you," he adds conversationally.

"Noted." John takes a deep breath. "What if I go insane?"

"We all go insane. Your turn's coming up one way or another."

"What if I –"

"Don't 'what if' yourself to death. It's exceedingly pointless, not to mention unproductive. Go on your honeymoon now."

"You knew?" Why is he even surprised anymore?

"Of course I did. I helped Sherlock make the arrangements. I think you'll find it quite lovely."

"Hard to find anything lovely, when my best friend's hurting himself because of –"

"It's not because of you," Mycroft says sternly.

"Fine. I don't know about Bora Bora."

"The limo will take you and Mary to the airport at seven o'clock tomorrow."

"But –"

"I recommend packing a lot of sunscreen. I hear you have sensitive skin."

"Excuse –"

"I'm pulling up in front of the flat now. Goodbye."

The line cuts out before John can do anything.

He stands in the center of the living room, seeped in fading light, and thinks of Sherlock. He does not respond when Mary calls, does not get up to answer the door, does not move. He stands, he cries, and when he is empty, he falls to the floor and stares unseeingly into the distance.

The next morning, when the limousine does indeed arrive to transport them to the airport, John's limp has returned.


	9. Someone Has To

_Author's note – _I initially planned to just use John/Sherlock's POVs, but I kind of felt like Mycroft has become an essential player (and, potentially, in some cameos, even Lestrade, Molly, and/or Mary) so hopefully it doesn't bother you that I'm going to use other POVs.

Mycroft and his infamous umbrella make a lovely appearance too.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and this fic, and thank you so much for those of you following and favoriting and reading, it really does mean so much. And please review if you have any requests, etc.

Alright, without further ado, chapter nine.

–––––

_Author's note – _I initially planned to just use John/Sherlock's POVs, but I kind of felt like Mycroft has become an essential player (and, potentially, in some cameos, even Lestrade, Molly, and/or Mary) so hopefully it doesn't bother you that I'm going to use other POVs.

Mycroft and his infamous umbrella make a lovely appearance too.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and this fic, and thank you so much for those of you following and favoriting and reading, it really does mean so much. And please review if you have any requests, etc.

Alright, without further ado, chapter nine.

–––––

_Mycroft_

"What a pleasant surprise," Sherlock says as Mycroft walks in. "Do take a seat."

"Hold on, I've got some business to take care of." Mycroft brushes past him and goes straight to Sherlock's room. He begins rummaging around drawers, though he is careful not to make too much of a mess despite his pounding chest and shaking fingers. The blades are in an old shoebox tucked beneath Sherlock's mattress.

"Impressive," his little brother drawls, leaning against the door frame. "Only took you two minutes, sixteen seconds."

"Shut it," Mycroft warns, and empties the contents into his jacket pocket. "I'll be disposing of these, as well as the others I'm about to find in the bathroom."

"Clever. Have fun."

"I will." Mycroft all but shoves Sherlock against the wall as he strides to the loo where, after five minutes and four seconds, he discovers another hoard.

"Where shall we go next?" Sherlock asks sardonically. "Pray tell."

Mycroft slaps him in the face.

"That was unprece –"

Mycroft slaps him again.

"Are you –"

Mycroft knees Sherlock in the gut.

"What the fu –"

Mycroft seizes his umbrella and impales Sherlock's foot with it for good measure.

"You're a bloody terrorist," Sherlock gasps, cradling his cheek and wincing. He falls into his armchair.

"And you're a bloody idiot," Mycroft snaps, sitting on the sofa.

"Really," Sherlock says wearily. "I'll devise a comeback for that exceedingly poor-quality retort later."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft pauses, adrenaline pumping through his body, hands twitching involuntarily. "_Why?_"

"That seems to be the question of the century."

Anger. Crippling anger, borne, no doubt, of grief and a touch of guilt. "No, you know what? You know _why_ I just assaulted you?"

"Because you're bored."

"No, you wanker! Because I don't fucking understand why you didn't have the sense to tell anybody! I don't care who the fuck it was, if it was the random nice lady on the tube, if it was Anderson, if it was a bloody hobo. But I know you, and I know for a fact that this was just another secret, something fun to keep to yourself, something you didn't think was a big deal, just like the drugs were, and you can't do that! You just fucking _can't_."

"Sense is not my area, it would seem."

"It used to be! Just because you've got feelings like any other person doesn't mean that you're crazy or insane, and you should have told someone!" He's getting very worked up now and does not care enough to calm down. "You should have told _me, _for god's sake."

"Excuse me? Why would you ever –"

"YOU'RE MY FUCKING BROTHER AND I FUCKING LOVE YOU."

Sherlock stares at him, flummoxed, for quite a long time.

"Sorry. I never intended for that to come out of my mouth." Mycroft feels embarrassed and saddened and unbelievably angry.

"That was... rather..."

"Anyway," Mycroft goes on, quieter now, "you should have told me."

"I didn't want anyone to know."

"Don't hurt yourself, Sherl," Mycroft says gently, moving so the younger man is forced to look him in the eye. "There are so many better ways to deal with pain than that."

Sherlock ducks his head. "I'm not good."

"At what?"

"Everything, really. John. Life. Emotions. Not to mention I've been off my game, and I..." He drifts off, shuts his eyes. "Remember Philip Brown?"

"The cocky son-of-a-bitch who made primary school living hell for you? Yeah."

"I've been thinking about all the things he said to me back then, and I think he was right."

Mycroft gapes at him. "You're letting a fourteen-year-old prick make you feel inferior?"

"He always said how I think I'm better than I am, and how I'm bonkers, and how I'm never going to amount to anything. And I'm not, am I? I live alone, relying on an elderly woman to make me eat and sleep, I don't have a remotely legitimate job, I haunt crime scenes as an alternative for getting high. I couldn't even keep John as my friend. Does _any_ of that qualify as getting somewhere in life?" Sherlock speaks rapidly, scrutinizing the carpet, eyes darker than ever. He has accepted this distorted theory as reality, and nobody has stopped him. Nobody _knew_ enough to stop him.

So many words are tumbling inside Mycroft's head that he feels dizzy. Sodding brothers. Make you care about them so much, willing to take a bullet for them, then turn around and do this. Torture, really. "Please stop," is all he can think to say. "You're stronger than that."

"I'm not."

"Don't be a stubborn arse."

"I am."

"But I love –"

Sherlock holds up a hand. "Don't say it again."

"Fine." Mycroft takes a shuddery breath, folds and unfolds his hands. "I'm going to move in with you until things get better."

Sherlock looks horrified and deeply affronted. "You're bloody well _not._"

"Then how will I be able to trust that you'll stop?"

"You won't, because I'm not going to stop."

"What would make you stop?"

"Nothing."

"Sherl."

"Mike."

"Oh god, not that again."

"Your name was always so peculiar, you're the one who wanted to change it, not me."

"I was _nine._"

"You were definitely ten."

"I like my name. You shouldn't even remember things from that long ago."

"Fine. Mike."

Mycroft would laugh if the situation wasn't so dire. He leans his elbows on his knees contemplatively. "Listen. Sherlock." The pause stretches on so long that his brother says impatiently,

"That is indeed my name. Gold star for Mikey Holmes. Are you going to say anything, or ought I to leave first?"

"Listen. I..." This is more painful than he anticipated. "Please get help. Please stop."

"Why should I? I'm not hurting anybody else, and as far as I'm concerned this involves me, and only me."

"That's where you're wrong." Fight to stay calm. Deep breaths. "John is _devastated_. You broke his heart."

"He broke mine." No one but Mycroft would be able to read through the facade of mild disinterest in the detective's voice.

"It wasn't... we won't get into that." Mycroft is undeniably of the belief that Sherlock's feelings are reciprocated, but that doesn't matter right now. What matters is saving his baby brother. "It breaks my heart, too, and I can guarantee that Mum will feel the same."

"You haven't told her yet?"

"No. I wanted to give you a chance to."

"I don't want to."

"Fine. I will." It is not a conversation to look forward too. Someone has to do it, though. And over the years it has become his responsibility to have the shitty tete-a-tetes, to execute the ultimate blackmailing, handle the nitty gritty. Sherlock may think he's got people wrapped round his pinky, but those people are even more firmly wrapped round Mycroft's. "You have to stop. I'll get you help."

"I don't want therapy," Sherlock snaps.

"Fine. Don't get therapy. Seek asylum in a new case, in skydiving, in cooking. I don't give a fuck."

"You think I'm going to cook my sorrows away?"

"I don't fucking _care._" God, that man is infuriating. "Do something else with the energy."

"I don't want to."

_Sodding brothers_.He stares Sherlock straight in the face and says slowly, "Do it for John." It's his last card, thrown out onto the table, and Sherlock's got an excellent poker face.

A poker face which crumples.

Encouraging. Not in a sadistic way. Sherlock's got a palace that's been accumulating towers and guards for the past three decades, and fighting past those barriers is exhausting, gut-wrenching, and difficult.

Again, someone has to do it.

"Do it for John," he repeats.

"Don't do this," Sherlock whispers hoarsely. "That's too far."

"It's not. We both know you love him."

Sherlock's legs are folded up to his chest now, and he looks at Mycroft with the wide, frightened eyes of a little boy. "I don't want –"

"To face your emotions? It's about time. You don't need to fear them."

"I can't. You vied for me, didn't you? With John. You reinforced my request. He hasn't spoken to me since. The only person who could have stopped him is you."

"I did talk to him. I asked him to remove himself from your life, for your own well being. And he obliged. Think about that for a moment, and think about what I'm asking you, and then tell me what you're going to do."

"It doesn't... work like that," Sherlock says shakily.

"He did it for you. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was abandon you, but he did. For you."

"That's very invalidating. One does not _stop_ self harming for another person. The emotions penetrate far deeper than that."

"I understand this." And Mycroft does, far more than he will ever divulge to his brother. "But I also understand that, like it or not, you are a sensible, albeit confused and often emotion-driven fellow. Stubborn as hell, too." Sherlock allows a small smile at this pronouncement. "And I know that deep down in the god awful, arrogant bastard sitting in front of me is a decent bloke who's willing to get his life back together, if not for himself, for someone he loves more than anything."

"I don't love John more than _anything,_" Sherlock says disdainfully. Good: when he starts finding arbitrary things to dispute, it means Mycroft's won, and both Holmes men know this.

"I'll be checking in on you, you know. Every day. So will Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft gets off the couch.

"Oh, please. You have cameras trained on me at least seventy-three percent of the time; don't act as if it'll be any different."

"I will physically surveil you."

Sherlock leans back in his chair theatrically. "Oh my, aren't you the badass."

"Good_bye_," says Mycroft firmly. He pauses at the threshold – Sherlock's already checking out, tousled curls falling against the bridge of his nose as he remains perfectly still – and says softly, "I know it'll be hard."

"Yes," says Sherlock, and Mycroft watches in gut-wrenching pity as his brother's eyes flicker automatically to the bare spot where John's chair used to be.

Wordlessly, he shuts the door behind him and strides out into the street. These sorts of interactions with people, particularly his brother, are a tricky, unpleasant business. Always has been, always will be.

But someone has to do it.

–––––

Monday, November 18, 2013

_John_

Mary brings up the inevitable issue just as stewardesses come by with drinks.

"What happened with Sherlock?"

John freezes. "We haven't talked much."

"Well, I know _that_, darling, but I'm wondering why you were so shaken last night. Just water for me, please," she tells the attendant.

"Oh. He hasn't really... he's a little stressed right now."

"Is he doing drugs again?" she asks crisply.

John almost chokes on a peanut. "Come again?"

"I asked if he's –"

"No, I know, I know." He waves her off. "No, he isn't."

"Mm. What is it, then? I'm not dumb, John. I know you care about him, and I know that, aside from myself, he is the only person who could reduce you to such a state. You were trembling, you were upset. Something clearly happened."

"Nothing," John says, throat thick and clumsy as he tries to swallow down a cashew. Shitty airline food. He takes Mary's hand, kisses it. "I'm knackered, think I'll take a nap now."

She still looks concerned. "I know you don't want to talk about it, and I respect that. Just... please don't push him away. Please don't let – I know things changed," she fumbles, "when we got married. And I just don't want to be the reason that you end things with him."

The irony of this statement hits him harder than it should. _Him_ push Sherlock away? As if.

Reading correctly into his stormy expression (Sherlock admittedly has a point when he accuses John of wearing his heart on his sleeve), his wife sighs. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to push. I worry about you sometimes. Keeping things in like that. And if I don't try to talk to you about it... well, someone has to."

"It's fine," John murmurs, feigning drowsiness.

"He makes you happy. Don't push him away," Mary whispers, pecking his temple as he slumps against the plane window and feels the engine's comforting hum against his cheek.

_Don't push him away._

As fucking if.


	10. Day Thirty

_Author's note _– Thank you so much for those of you who are reading and following/favoriting/reviewing. I can't describe how much it means to me to know that people enjoy my writing.

A little disclaimer about this chapter: one, trigger warning, for references to cutting. Two, I portray Sherlock's recovery as taking place within a very short frame of time. I realize this, and it was a choice I made as an author. I do not mean to imply that such recovery is as simple as depicted. It is not.

I debated about chapter length, but ultimately decided that this was sufficient. I didn't want to go into lots of detail and angst and internal monologues; muddying the passage of time is a device that I felt lent itself splendidly to this section.

As always, let me know what you think.

–––––

_Mary_

She thinks her husband may be losing it.

It isn't just the sulking and the drinking. It's the hollowness, the preoccupation, and when they run into poor unsuspecting Allison Roche in the lobby, she becomes seriously concerned.

The hotel is amazing. Gorgeous, stunning, luxurious, and she can't get over the fact that Sherlock paid for this, all of this, just for them. It would arouse her suspicion if she wasn't so certain about his character: that what you see is what you get. He doesn't sugar coat, he doesn't hide things; this much she is sure of.

"Let's go outside, get some fresh air," she says, tugging John by the hand.

"Yeah, alright," he says, nervously licking his lips and glancing at his mobile. "I need to check my email."

"We can go to that restaurant down the street. They have wifi there."

"Okay."

A young girl, probably no older than sixteen, approaches them as they head for the sliding glass doors. "Hi," she says breathlessly, eyes shining. "You're John Watson, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Hi. I'm Allison Roche, I'm a huge fan! You're Sherlock Holmes's partner, right?"

He stiffens, squeezes Mary's fingers a little harder, and replies tightly, "Not so much right now, seeing as I'm in a foreign country, but yes. He and I have worked together in the past."

"How is he? I've sent him fan mail, but I don't know if he reads them."

"Um. He..." John is cutting back a smirk; he and Mary both know full well that Sherlock despises his following. "He's busy, a lot."

"Oh." Her face falls. "Well, would you mind – could you maybe – could you –"

"Do you want an autograph?" Mary asks gently.

"If you don't mind?" She produces a Sharpie and hands it to John, bouncing up and down eagerly. Starstruck. Mary finds it endearing.

"Oh. Right." He scrawls something across the proffered scrap of paper and turns to leave.

"Wait," says Allison. "Are you... are you still friends with Sherlock? You two are so cute. Like, as best friends. I know – this is your wife – hi. But I just was wondering, and my friends were wondering, because we haven't seen you around or read anything talking about you. And him."

Mary feels John clench his jaw beside her, snap into army mode: cold, hardened, braced for impact. Shit. "They've been busy," she steps in desperately. "They –"

"No. We aren't friends anymore."

Allison's mouth makes a little shocked 'o' at the intensity in his gaze. He leans forward, eyes blazing.

"But if you see him, you can tell him from me to go straight to hell."

"I..."

"John," Mary says sharply, and steers him off to the side, mouthing _I'm so sorry_ to the poor girl. She waits until a crowd moves past before hissing, "What's wrong?"

"I can't do this."

"What?"

"Sherlock..."

"What? Tell me." A seed of panic is planting itself in her stomach. If Sherlock did something to John – if John did something to Sherlock – well, shit.

"We aren't talking anymore. His and Mycroft's orders."

_What? _"That's bollocks. Mycroft can't dictate that."

"He has. And Sherlock made it abundantly clear that he 'can't handle' me being in his life. Ever again." His voice breaks, and Mary gathers him into her arms, murmuring,

"Oh, darling. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he says, though it clearly is not. He holds her desperately, full of need. "He's my best mate."

"I know, I know." Her heart is breaking; John, sweet John, who's had to endure so much loss, and now this.

"It's not fucking fair. He shut me out. I didn't do anything. I swear to god I didn't." He pauses, as if something's just occurred to him, and his shoulders droop disconsolately. "Maybe I did. I..."

"Shh. I know you didn't, love."

"I'm so angry. So fucking angry. God, I could punch him, shove him off a building, for all I care."

Her husband is falling apart and she is powerless to stop it. All because of one man, because of one snarky detective. It's neither one's fault. Sherlock is difficult like that, and while she didn't see this coming, she isn't surprised that he would retreat. But still. _John._

"I care about him."

"Yeah," she says, pressing her lips into his hair. "Yeah, I know you do. I know you love him."

He says nothing, simply shuts his eyes and leans against her shoulder, eyelashes fluttering against the nape of her neck.

–––––

Friday, November 29, 2013

_Sherlock_

John.

John John John John.

He wakes up.

John.

The razors, the backups, are in his dresser. There's no way Mycroft would have missed them. It's a test. A bloody fucking test and god, he wants to fail it.

John.

He texts his brother.

**Can't do it. SH**

_Please. You are strong enough._

**You know. SH**

_About the dresser? Of course._

**Is this how it normally is, with these things? I can't stop thinking about it. About him. It's a disease. I think I'm getting ill. SH**

_You can survive without him, you know. That's your problem. You are black and white. Life has gradations, Sherlock. You are letting one man dictate your emotions, your mental stability, and I think you are braver than that. This is not forever._

**Were you always this annoying? SH**

_I've been told so._

**I want to. To cut. SH**

_What purpose does it serve?_

**The emotional pain won't feel as real. SH**

_You'll still love John._

**I shouldn't. SH**

_Black and white, brother mine. Black and white._

**I don't want to. Love him. I don't. It's messy, and inconvenient, and awfully troublesome. SH**

_That's what love is. Unfortunately, you don't have much of a say in the matter._

**They're so close. Right there. Two feet, seven and a quarter inch away. SH**

_You are strong._

**Get me out of here. SH**

_Be there in eight minutes, forty-five seconds._

–––––

And so it continues, Sherlock leaning on Mycroft more than he feels is remotely suitable. John's stay in Bora Bora is scheduled to be a month long, and Lestrade informs Mycroft that per Mary's request, they are extending their holiday and will not be available for another two weeks. No further explanation.

Mycroft drives Sherlock places, as if his younger brother is a child again. He takes him to museums, to parks, to obscure little villages. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don't. Sherlock starts fights when he gets bored, and Mycroft turns up the radio or does a U-turn. Some days they take back roads and sandwiches; others they follow random exit signs and slink home under cold white lights at two in the morning.

They don't take the tube. The tube reminds him of John, and John reminds him of pain.

But it works. Fresh air, sunshine, maps, and new scenery.

"I miss him," Sherlock says one evening.

"I know."

"It's not as bad." He is very surprised.

"I know."

"It still hurts. I miss him," he repeats, so Mycroft doesn't think he was _too_ right about the whole business.

"I know."

Mycroft is looking at him funny. Sherlock doesn't know what to make of it. "Are you angry?" Reasonable question.

"No."

"Please don't stab me with your umbrella."

"Wasn't planning on it."

–––––

On day six, Sherlock goes back to eating.

On day eleven, Sherlock smiles. (Granted, he's smiling at a photograph of a decapitated head that he stumbles upon online doing god knows what.)

On day twenty-six, Sherlock goes back to solving cases.

On day thirty, he throws out the blades.


	11. Not Very

_John_

He's got his suitcase packed. The taxi is waiting out front.

Mary pecks his cheek, joining him at the window.

"Will you miss it?" she asks.

Miss what? The sun? "No."

"We don't have to go back immediately."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Extend our holiday. If it will help you."

"I lost my best friend. Nothing's going to help much."

"I know." She looks bleakly at him. Mary. Beautiful, caring, concerned. She does love him, and he loves her, cares about her, respects her, appreciates everything she has done. Nobody can truly comfort him right now, but if he had to choose one person to make an attempt, he would choose his wife.

Ringing endorsement, that.

"I haven't a problem with it," she adds soothingly. "Life at home can wait."

_Life at home. _Sherlock playing violin. Sherlock interrogating suspects. Sherlock sipping cold tea.

"It will get better."

"Okay," he says, because he is not convinced.

"John?"

He sighs. "I love you."

"You too."

"Thank you. Really." He kisses her, and she cups his chin in her smooth hands, nose brushing his cheek.

"You're welcome."

"Can we do it?"

"Do what?"

"Extend the holiday."

She nods immediately. "Yes."

––––

_Mycroft_

From: John Watson

To: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

Date: Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Subject: SH

How is he?

—

From: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

To: John Watson

Date: Monday, November 25, 2013

Subject: RE: SH

Managing. Enjoy your holiday.

-Mycroft

—

From: John Watson

To: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

Date: Monday, November 25, 2013

Subject: Re: RE: SH

Are you mental? I'm not going to enjoy my fucking holiday when I know what happened to Sherlock. Don't keep me in the dark, you asshole.

—

From: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

To: John Watson

Date: Sunday, December 1, 2013

Subject: Calm down

Temper temper. I'm working on a project with him. It involves not cutting. You may want to look into washing your mouth out with soap.

-Mycroft

—

From: John Watson

To: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

Date: Monday, December 2, 2013

Subject: Re: Calm down

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

—

From: John Watson

To: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

Date: Monday, December 2, 2013

Subject: Re: Calm down

Sorry. Is he safe?

—

From: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

To: John Watson

Date: Thursday, December 19, 2013

Subject: RE: Re: Calm down

I hear you extended your stay. Excellent decision. I think he will pull through, but keeping your distance is a prudent step.

He smiled at a photo of a decapitated head on 11 December. Baby steps.

-Mycroft

—

From: John Watson

To: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

Date: Friday, December 20, 2013

Subject: (no subject)

We're going to come back on January 2nd. In case that matters.

—

From: Mycroft Holmes mholmes .uk

To: John Watson

Date: Thursday, January 2, 2014

Subject: Re: (no subject)

Welcome home. Please avoid Baker Street. I hope you have a nice tan.

-Mycroft

–––––

Friday, January 3, 2014

"There's a fellow asking for you," says Anthea. "John, actually."

"Surprise, surprise," Mycroft replies drily. "Let him in."

John looks rather worse for wear. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than usual and he's got a haggard expression that wasn't there before. "How is he?" he asks at once. Predictable.

"Let's not jump the gun. Too early to drink?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Mycroft pours himself some whiskey, swirling the glass cup thoughtfully. "He is actually doing quite well. Confiscated his razors today."

Relief pools on John's face. "Thank god." Then, "Is he happy?"

"I don't know how capable he is of happiness, particularly when you are absent from his life."

"I thought you said it would help."

"It has. He will, in time, discover who he is without you."

John grimaces. "I don't want that."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Poor lovelorn fool. "He will always love you."

"Doesn't it bother you, faze you, at all? That I'm, you know. Married."

"And homosexual? Not in the slightest."

"Married, Mycroft. To a woman."

Mycroft sighs. "Ah, there it is. The only problem."

John gapes at him, blinks and shakes his head in disbelief. "Excuse me, the _only _problem?"

"Ultimately, yes. You and Sherlock love each other. This much is evident, and the rest is just details. Terminating your relationship..." John flinches. Mycroft groans inwardly. _Lord beer me strength. _It does get tiresome, settling all his baby brother's relationship drama. "You do want to, correct?"

"The thing is, I've never been attracted to a man before."

"Between you and Sherlock, I feel like I'm a middle school counselor teaching two scruffy lads the ways of the world. Listen. John. At some point in your life – and I had rather hoped it would have occurred before this business – you will come to the realization that sexuality is fluid. Not black and white." He chooses his words carefully now. "You love who you love," he begins slowly. "It doesn't matter if it's man or a woman. Gender is inconsequential. You can fall for anyone, regardless of past preferences and experiences."

"Well, I've certainly fallen." Mycroft gets the sense that this is the first time John's allowed himself to make such a confession.

He rolls his eyes. "Shocker. The main point is, do you want to end things with Mary Morstan?"

"I don't know."

Jesus _Christ. _"If you're having doubts..."

"I want to be with Sherlock, believe me. If he would even take me at this point."

"Then how would you plan to be simultaneously with him and Mary?"

"God, I don't know."

Time to switch tactics. "You are a man who does not enjoy fusses."

"True."

"Yet are aware that dealing with Sherlock entails a large quantity of fusses. He's difficult, sometimes belligerent, and mule-headed."

"You're telling me," John mutters.

"Just a friendly reminder. No need to act like a wounded tiger." John rearranges his features into a painfully fake quasi-smile; more of a grimace, really. "You need to decide whether or not he is worth this particular fuss." Mycroft sits back and folds his arms.

"He's worth everything," John says quietly after a moment.

"Good. I suspected, perhaps even hoped, that this would be the case."

"Do I wait until..."

"Until he is stable enough to interact with you again? Do you want to wait?"

"Uh. I don't know."

"You have far more control of these situations than is evident to yourself. I repeat: do you want to wait?"

"I – d'you have any sense of when he might be, you know... ready?"

"No telling."

"Then I guess..."

"The manner in which your sentences continue to peter out is cumbersome. I have a meeting in five minutes; please try to pull yourself together."

"I love Mary," John says quickly. "Platonically, at this point. Breaking up with her would mean losing a friend, as well as hurting someone who has done nothing but loved and taken care of me at my worst."

"How many times must I rephrase the question?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't know! You have to understand, there's no guarantee that anything will happen with Sherlock, and I'm scared out of my mind!"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm fucking terrified, Mycroft! What if I'm not good enough for him? What if he doesn't want me by the time he comes around? I'm a beat-up old man, maybe I'm not what he's looking for, I don't know!" He looks upset. Very upset. Mycroft gauges how harsh he can be without breaking the man.

Answer: not very.

He steeples his fingers and waits patiently.

He wasn't lying, though. He really does only have a few minutes. John better hurry up.

"_Fine_. I'll end things with Mary."

Excellent. Took him long enough. "When?"

"Soon."

Good enough. "My hunch is, John," he says, taking a sip of his drink, "at some point, most likely soon, something will happen, and you will be swayed one way or the other. Either towards Mary, or towards my brother. Something is bound to drive you over the edge." He doesn't _intend _to sound menacing. Whoops.

"You're so certain about this?"

"Sherlock is taking cases again. Without you. You don't have to have half a brain to assume that he'll do something stupid. Mark my words, something will happen."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, John." He shoos the man out of his office. "It almost always does."


	12. I Haven't

_Author's note – _Quick thing about chapter length: I'm sorry that they've been somewhat inconsistent, some 2k+ and some only 1k, but I feel like it's necessary, and for me as a writer each chapter has a place where it begins, and a place where I think it naturally ends. If you're a writer you'll understand how natural and instinctive writing really is, how the characters and plot of a really good story just write themselves. So, I hope that doesn't bother anyone.

Lots of angst and drama in this one. Hold onto your hats. And, as always, please leave reviews/follow/favorite if you want more! :)

Saturday, February 15, 2014

_Sherlock_

The suspect has him against the edge of the boat. Hands at his throat. Feet bound.

He fumbles for his mobile, desperately typing out a text to John – who he knows returned a fortnight ago despite everyone's attempts to deny it (Molly is awful at subtlety) – behind his back. Perhaps it's the lack of oxygen flow to his head that removes any preconceptions regarding the appropriateness of his chosen recipient. Regardless, John is the only person he wants to rescue him, wants to see at all, really. Impending death exposes priorities.

_John. Need you. Please hurry. SH_

He forgets to put the location, assuming that John will know where he is. John always finds him, doesn't he. That's what he does.

"You're not so brave without your little sidekick, are you?" the criminal sneers, all crooked teeth and foul breath. Sherlock is having too much trouble breathing to analyze the source of his captor's stench.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock chokes. _Hurry, John._

"Oh, but I think I do. You're a two-man act, aren't you? One can't live without the other. Seen it before. Like a couple, you two."

Sherlock snarls, rage unlike any other subsuming his being. Being asphyxiated may contribute to sudden loss of inhibition. "John and I," he wheezes, kicking at his attacker, who only dodges him, "are _not_ a couple."

"Yeah? Well, none of that matters, does it, if he's not here to save your arse this time around?"

"You don't know –" Sherlock's phone beeps. He struggles to look at the screen. _[Message not delivered]_. Fuck. Before he can hit "resend," he sails over the edge of the boat. Water rushes all around him, ropes twining slick about his ankles, double helices of his own blood twisting and twirling, ethereal, as the cut on his forehead bleeds into the inky depths.

He sinks below the surface, and thinks of John.

–––––

Sunday, February 16, 2014

_John_

John stands in the corridor, barely controlling his anger. Lestrade's got an infuriating half-pitying, half-irritated expression plastered to his face.

Struggling to find words, John peeks into the hospital room again, but the nurse inside swiftly pulls the curtain around Sherlock's bed with a disapproving look.

John crosses his arms and turns to Lestrade. Voice shaking with suppressed fury, he spits, "Why didn't you call me?"

"You were on holiday with your new wife," Lestrade explains patiently, as if John is quite daft. What, does he think Lord Voldemort's been possessing him the past two months? That he suddenly doesn't remember things as crucial and wracking as what happened with Sherlock?

"We got back ages ago." Fourteen days. Does that count as "ages"? God. Mary, the wedding, the honeymoon in sodding Bora Bora, the two extra weeks drifting around Scotland to "clear" his head – he is bitterly, regretfully aware of these facts.

"We don't see you around much, John," says Lestrade gently. "Mycroft is the only one who's still in contact with you."

"I know." John forces these words through gritted teeth. Then, "You should have called."

"I understand that you're upset, but you must understand, John, that you do not live with this man anymore. He has no one in particular – which, of course, is not your fault." He glances at John, at his stormy brow, and sighs. "Look. I would have rung you, but you are not on the list of people to notify. You're not listed as an emergency contact –"

"You _know_ he's my effing best friend!" John hollers. People turn and stare. He's beet red. "If he's hurt, don't you think I would want to be first to know?"

"No," Lestrade replies simply. "You've moved on with your life. You two barely talk anymore, you told me yourself."

"I – we have. I haven't... I haven't."

"John." Lestrade looks stressed out of his mind. Welcome to the club. "You're _married_ now! You've opened up an entirely new chapter in your life – forgive the cliche – and I don't see how it's my fault that you were not the first priority when they dragged his body out of that lake."

"I know," mutters John. "But you're wrong."

"Pardon?"

John is already walking away. He turns around, stares Lestrade full in the face. "I haven't moved on."

"What are you –"

But John is nothing but pounding feet down tiled halls. Mary reaches for him as he sprints past the waiting room; he brushes her off, trainers striking the ground with the force of his remorse, to the rhythm of his breath – Sherlock's breath, steady in sleep, raggedy among the cords and monitors – and the words that fly out of his mouth on each impact. "I" – he's flying out the double doors now – "_never_" – he doesn't know where the car is, doesn't know a thing, doesn't give a fuck – "moved" – he ends up on the front stoop of 221b – "on."

–––––

_Mary_

They look for John and find her.

"He just left," she says when the nurse asks.

"Do you mind stepping in here for a moment?"

"Sure."

Sherlock's lying limply on the stark white sheets, milky skin nearly blending in. He has a couple of tubes up his nose and an IV poking out of his wrist, against which scars – old ones, thank god – press patterns.

"What happened?" she asks hollowly.

"We aren't sure, but it is believed that Mr. Holmes intentionally searched out a suspect, hiding on his boat, and attempted to confront him. He was no match – this," she gestured to the needle, "isn't thanks to their altercation; he was dehydrated, and slightly malnourished, to begin with. Anyway, he nearly drowned, fluid filled his lungs, the whole nine... hypothermia started to set in, too, given that it's just February. His landlady, concerned because he'd been gone awhile, called his brother, who immediately 'deduced.'" She glances at Mary. "Are you familiar with... does he do that often?"

"Both of them, yes. Go on."

"Mr. Holmes's brother successfully beat the rescue helicopters and singlehandedly dove in, dragged Sherlock out, and performed CPR on him. At that point, the EMTs took over, and he was transported to the hospital."

"It's a bloody miracle," Mary whispers.

The nurse looks at her with pitying eyes. "He's going to be okay."

"He better be." She clasps his hand, loose and floppy against her palm, and squeezes it. "You better fucking be okay," she says. He gives no indication that he hears her.

"He's still quite out of it, I'm afraid. Doesn't respond to anybody, not even his brother."

"It's okay," she says, and is suddenly seized by the conviction that she is in the wrong place. Her husband should be here. Sherlock is John's best friend, not hers. "Can you excuse me for a moment?"

The nurse nods and draws the curtain again, fussing over buttons and digital lines.

Mary gets told off for making a call in the waiting room, so she resorts to text.

**come back.**

It is delivered and read, but no reply.

**darling, please. sherlock needs you.**

Nothing. She waits fifteen minutes, then,

**where are you?**

_The flat._

Well, of course he responds to a straightforward question. Bastard.

**come back to the hospital.**

_No. Did they tell you what happened?_

**yes, and i won't until you come back.**

_Is he okay?_

**he'll survive. we have mycroft to thank for that.**

_Tosser._

**i know he enforced the whole 'space' thing, but he cares about his brother.**

_So do I._

**me too. you have to come back. what happens when he wakes up?**

_He'll move on with his life again._

**please, love. come back.**

She watches the screen as he types, stops, types, stops. Then, finally, a little white bubble.

_On my way._


	13. Past, Future

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

_Sherlock_

His mouth is dry, lips cracked, tubes running uncomfortably through his nasal cavity and into his stomach. Thick, down his throat. Sick?

A hand comes to rest on his forehead. He stills.

_John. _

He knows by the weight distribution of the slightly square, callused fingertips, the scent of John's soap.

"He's awake," John says, cadence so familiar it aches.

"He may be a little disoriented," warns a nurse.

"Can he talk to us?" Mary. He thought he'd nearly deleted her voice. Shame.

"Yes, he should be. Sherlock?"

"Mm." He feigns grogginess, if only to dissuade them from interrogation.

"Sherlock." John's hand does not move from his brow. It feels good, soft and deliciously soothing.

"John." It's barely more than a whisper.

"Mary, can you... can you leave us for a moment?"

She concedes too easily. Does she know something? Can't tell. Chest sore.

"Sherlock," says John, and his voice is quivering. "I... I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Sherlock murmurs.

"Not coming. Not finding you."

"Shouldn't have expected you to. Went off on my own." He doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't think he can handle seeing John's face flooded with concern.

"Yes, but I – I find you. That's what I do. That's my job."

Sherlock silently finds John's hand, holds it against his lips, an echo of a kiss. "Not anymore," he says sadly. "Mary's waiting. Mary's your job."

"I'm not... with her."

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath sends pain through his chest. "What?"

"I'm going to end it."

Panic. This isn't how it's supposed to go. "No. I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't. I want to. It's my own decision."

"You chose her," Sherlock says, a painful reminder.

"I know. And it was the stupidest thing I've done."

"Debatable. You've done some fairly moronic things in the past. The thing with the –"

"Stop. No. We are not going to discuss that." John chuckles, brushes his pinky over the curve of Sherlock's bottom lip.

"John. Please don't break her heart."

"I'll try not to."

It is imperative that he understand. Sherlock grasps blindly for words. "If what she feels for you is a fraction of what I feel for you... I rarely admit to having a conscience, as it has always been, in my mind, a burden and inconvenience – but now I understand. I understand how she feels, and I've felt the pain of your rejection. I do not wish to live life with the knowledge that I ruined a marriage, caused someone the agony that I have the misfortune to feel so acutely."

"You matter more to me. You've always mattered more than anyone."

Sherlock sighs. "I doubt that very much."

"Are you mental?" John sounds genuinely shocked. Is Sherlock missing something? "I've – isn't it perfectly obvious?"

"If you truly meant that, you would not have married Mary. I am not denying the fact that you care for me; I trust you enough to believe that this much is true. But if you wanted to be with me... you would. It is only natural."

John is tensing up. "I didn't know I had a chance with you."

_Neither did I._ "That is a fair point. However, nothing was stopping you from inquiring as to the manner of our relationship."

Anger creeps into his voice. "And you would've told me, would you?"

Sherlock tries to visualize such a conversation. "Fifty-fifty."

Scoff, an emphatic _tchah. _"So what good would it have done?"

Sherlock is tired. Emotionally, physically, mentally. His mind palace is in a state of disarray. "No use dwelling on the past."

"The past is all I have with you. I don't have you, now."

"Nobody 'has' anybody. People are not property."

"That's beside the point." John's hands have curled into fists, shoulder muscles tightening. "I'm saying... how am I supposed to _not_ dwell on the past, when that's all I have left of you, of us? Memories, Sherlock. Memories that consume me and take over my entire sodding brain, every second of every day. I don't want memories. I'm sick of the past. I want you, I want the future."

Sherlock feels tears coming. Tears: inappropriate. John must leave. "Leave."

"Sherlock –"

"John. Leave." His voice shakes imperceptibly, but he knows John can hear it. John can always hear it.

"I – can you promise me something?"

"Perhaps." Of course.

"That somehow, one way or another, I'll have you in the future."

"There is no such thing as 'having' someone." John begins to say something angrily. "But," Sherlock continues, "yes. There is a future, and I intend to be present for it."

"Good," John says, and shuts the door.

—

Friday, February 21, 2014

_John_

John stays at a hotel tonight, ignoring phone calls and avoiding reality. He doesn't drink, just sits and nurses a glass of tepid water at a table by himself until the staff shoo him away apologetically. Then he goes for a walk.

The sky casts purple streaks across the horizon. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strolls along the nearly vacant avenue, passing park benches, frosted over in hoary snow crystals, and thinking about Sherlock.

He can't really be surprised when Mycroft shows up.

"Hello," he says wearily.

"Pleasant evening." Mycroft appears to entertain the possibility of smiling before rejecting the notion and tapping the spot next to him. "Sit."

John obliges.

"You have visited Sherlock."

"I have. He was... he wasn't exactly promising."

"You cannot expect him to be exceptionally animated. He is recovering from a situation in which you put him," Mycroft says sternly.

"How is it my fault?" Everything's his fault, it seems. And if – when – he breaks things off with Mary, well, that's going to be his bloody fault as well. As was Sherlock's descent into cutting, as was their fall-out, as was this whole goddamn mess.

"Cause and effect, John. Cause and effect. Care to smoke?"

John stares flatly at the cigarette. "I don't smoke."

Mycroft gestures languidly. "Good choice. Smoking is abominable." He blows a ring into the frigid air.

"What do you mean, cause and effect?"

"When I was younger, I quite enjoyed blaming people for things. At one point, I was busy blaming Sherlock for some trivial matter involving forgery and blackmail – standard, particularly during his stint in primary school – when it occurred to me to trace the blame back to his teacher for allowing him to leave the room, and consequently the principal for hiring the teacher, and the administration for hiring the principal, and eventually the blame ended up on his great-great-grandmother, as she was responsible for his existence. By stating that you were the cause of his accident, I am merely tracing back a handful of layers."

"Meaning?"

"Sherlock was in danger because you were not with him. You were not with him because you were with Mary. You were with Mary because he, in your mind, rejected you. He did so because you rejected him. Your compliance with distancing yourself was because you desired his recovery from self harm. Recovery was necessary because of the emotional damage he experienced at your hands. You inflicted said damage because he was unclear about his feelings. He –"

"And that's just a 'handful,' is it? Sounds like a shitload of blame to me." John is getting angry. Deep breaths.

"Mm." Mycroft scrutinizes him. "At any rate. I am glad that you've seen him."

"But what?"

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "There is no but."

"Oh. No caveat? Hard to believe."

Mycroft exhales a cloud of smoke thoughtfully. "How are things with Mary?"

"There it is." John rubs a hand over his face. "I... haven't spoken with her."

"I know. I repeat: how are things with Mary?"

"Er..."

"Does she suspect?"

"I dunno. She knows something is up, I think. I mean, look at me. I'm not cozying up with her in bed right now, am I?"

"She has understood your unique bond with Sherlock from the start. I am not entirely convinced that she will have noticed anything different."

"Mary's smart."

"Yet she loves you."

"Is that an insult?"

"An observation." How very like Sherlock. Sodding Holmes brothers. "My point being, Mary is smart, yes. At the same time, she loves you, and love can be blinding. Still, it is possible that she has noticed tension between you two, and tried to resolve it with internal acceptance. She does not resent you and Sherlock for being whatever you are, so long as you remain faithful to her. He is no threat if she has you."

"But doesn't she realize that he poses a massive emotional threat?"

"Mary doesn't think like that. She is alarmingly similar to Sherlock in that way. Black and white. What's hers is hers, unconditionally."

"Selfish, is she?"

"No," Mycroft says patiently, "she is a woman who has been emotionally damaged and held hostage in the past and knows of no other way to manage relationships. She holds onto things until they are blatantly gone."

"And I need to be blatantly gone."

"Precisely. While she may pick up on subtext, hints, subliminal messages, you remain married to her. Until you outwardly apply for divorce, making it clear that you harbor no more attachment to her, she will assume things stand where they always do."

"So I have to talk to her."

Mycroft fixes him with a very judgmental, somewhat pitying stare. "I don't need the money, but if I got a penny for every time you repeated my _excessively_ clear statements in question form, I would be a rich man. Richer," he corrects, and stamps out his cigarette. "Do not sugarcoat things, John. Be blunt. And," he says, standing up and tapping the tip of his umbrella on John's knee, "time is of the essence."

"That's what you want to hear," John mutters.

Later, as he drifts off into a fitful sleep, he thinks of the past, and the present, and the future, and Mary, and, above all, Sherlock.


End file.
